


You Live Twice

by SourCherryBlossom



Category: Homeland
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fear, Loss, Original Character(s), Romance, Separations, Starting Over, Unrequited Love, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 14:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 66,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3813181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SourCherryBlossom/pseuds/SourCherryBlossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn is gone on a mission, and Carrie has to go on without him.  What happens next?  Who does she meet, and how does she move on with her life?  Does she ever see Quinn again, and if she does, then what?  Rated M for swearing, mature situations and smut.  </p><p>A “Carrie/Quinn Challenge: 2½ years later” fic, which was indeed a challenge for me.  Thanks, kbear, you kept me from giving up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wiedergeburt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [koalathebear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalathebear/gifts).



> "You live twice, once in reality, the second time, in memories."  
> -Honoré de Balzac
> 
> "I did not begin when I was born, nor when I was conceived. I have been growing, developing, through incalculable myriads of millenniums. All my previous selves have their voices, echoes, promptings in me. Oh, incalculable times again shall I be born."  
> —Jack London, The Star Rover

Astrid's manicured eyebrows had gone up at the sight of Carrie's number on her caller ID. Sitting back in her office in Berlin, her posting in the Middle East complete for the time, she couldn't think of a more unlikely caller – or, a more worthy foe. What could she want?

"Allo?" she said archly. "Miss Mathison?"

"Yeah, it's me," Carrie said.

"I don't know where Quinn is, so you can stop calling me," she said pre-emptively.

"I know you don't, and that's not why I'm calling," Carrie said flatly. "I need to get the fuck out of here."

"Miss Mathison… Carrie…. I don't quite understand."

"I admit it," Carrie said, somewhat contritely, "You are the last person I ever expected to be asking for help. But…" she almost didn't know how to finish. "He's gone again. On a mission. And I need to get out of the US. I've left the Agency."

Carrie heard a low whistle on the other end of the phone, and then Astrid was quiet for a moment. Finally, she spoke.

"I see. I will not say, 'I told you so.' Let me make a few calls. Your abilities are well respected in the intelligence community in Western Europe. Maybe, there is something here, maybe even in Berlin. But I couldn't say at what level, what, "pay grade", you would say, is available. Would you be willing?"

Carrie took a deep breath. She had half expected Astrid to tell her to piss off, or not even answer. But here she was, being helpful. She had been making this call in her car, alternately looking in the rear view mirror at Franny, who dozed, and herself, who wasn't getting any younger. Where an ache for Quinn had previously resided, she now felt a numbness – like she had been sandpapered beyond sensitivity into something like acceptance. He had lit out, and couldn't be contacted. All the worry in the world wasn't going to bring him back. She sighed.

"I'd be willing, Astrid. I would."

* * *

Carrie had already begun the process that Quinn had been so near to completing last Spring. She had gone through all the requisite exit screens, tests, polygraphs, and forms, stating the same reason every time: I have to get out, it's for my daughter. I need to be there for her, I need to create a life for us. I have to get out for Franny. And so the system reluctantly disgorged one Carrie Anne Mathison, now a regular citizen, jobless and filing for COBRA, until she could get herself and Fran signed up for some kind of health insurance under Obamacare. Just another suburban mom, pushing a shopping cart with a baby girl in it. It felt liberating, and terrifying. But she forced herself to start to get used to it.

The morning her final discharge papers were signed, she picked them up and left a copy for filing, and then picked up her final paycheck and last overseas hazard bonus – a nice chunk of change. Walking out of Langley for what she thought was the last time, except perhaps as a visitor, she spied the familiar figure of Saul Berenson, a person she had gone out of her way to avoid since her sickening discovery at Dar Adal's home. He was in an adjacent parking lot, walking towards the building, head down and glasses on, his shoulders in their characteristic stoop. He looked old.

Good, she thought. He should feel burdened. He should feel heavy and sick after what he's done, fucking gone and sold his soul. If he ever had one. She moved quietly behind the "Kryptos" statue until he had entered the building, and was gone. If he made her, he didn't show it. Maybe he was as intent on avoiding her, as she was him. In any case, she didn't care. She just wanted to avoid an awkward "goodbye and good luck." He knew she was getting out – in fact, he had to sign some of her paperwork. But he hadn't called, emailed or stopped by in person. Between Carrie and her former mentor, now the new Director, a huge gulf now lay. There was no bridging it, except to go back in time. And that wasn't happening, no matter how anyone might wish it to. On her last day, she had hugged Max and Virgil, who promised to stay in touch. They probably would, she thought. She also had a surprisingly touching call from former Director Lockhart, who also promised to stay in touch. He probably wouldn't, she snarked, but she surely would miss his wife's lasagna.

She had gone home, and talked to Maggie. She needed to move on, she said. She needed a fresh start. Tears had started up in Maggie's eyes, but she had nodded sympathetically as Carrie described her image of a future life. Just her and Franny. Far away from Langley, from DC, from all the people she knew. Not that she was abandoning family, just ready to do something different. Far away from all the broken pieces of what she thought was her career. That was it, she was done. It was time to start over. "In Europe, I think. You and the girls can come and visit," Carrie insisted.

Though Maggie strongly suspected something had happened between Carrie and Quinn – in fact,  _knew_  something had happened by the terribly disaffected way Carrie had acted for the first few months after their Dad's funeral – neither of them brought him up, or even said his name. Something  _should_  have happened, Maggie thought. They looked like they belonged together, even in the way they walked together, when Carrie escorted Quinn back to his car, the night of their Dad's long wake. She watched them from the door with fondness and a small degree of jealousy. He was handsome, inordinately so, and obviously fond of Carrie. Maggie half-hoped that Carrie would "walk Quinn to the car" and not come back that night, and go share what they both so clearly needed, the closeness, the rapport, probably a pretty healthy amount of carnal pleasure. That was what Carrie had needed. That intimacy. Not a weekend with their crazy, child-abandoning mother. After that weekend, Carrie hadn't mentioned Quinn again, and Maggie hadn't seen him.

Maggie shook her head, as there was no point in bringing any of that up. It hadn't gone that way, and that was that. Their Dad, a huge Orioles fan, would have said, "Sometimes you swing, and you miss. That's the way it goes." She smiled weakly. "We'll miss you and Franny. So much. But where exactly will you go? What will you do?"

Carrie had looked out the kitchen window, sipped at her water bottle. "I don't know," she admitted. But Astrid's name occurred to her that night, remembering the stilted conversation with Quinn in the truck. German Intelligence was helpful, huh. Well, maybe they could be helpful to her, now. Out of the Agency, sworn to secrecy about her previous life, she certainly wasn't a threat of any kind.

So she had startled Astrid with a call. And Astrid had startled her, by being helpful. Sympathetic, even. Which was surprising, considering the liberties Carrie's team had taken with Astrid's privacy, her home and car. But she sensed something about Astrid: if nothing else, she knew what it was like to be left behind by Quinn. For whatever reason, she decided to assist her, and Carrie was glad.

Not long after, some calls had been made, and lo and behold, a contractor position working as an intelligence analyst was offered to Carrie. The German government still needed skilled contractors to review less-sensitive information, find patterns, and offer opinions about locations of cells, organizations, unsavory types gathering for nefarious purposes, like the Neo-nazi groups that preyed on citizens of Turkish origin, and so many other internal matters. She had a confidentiality clause, of course, but this was still miles below the clearance she had previously held. But what did she expect? Working for a foreign government, almost on demand, and earning a living wage. Jobs like this were almost unheard of. She was delighted to get it. She accepted, and started to get ready.

* * *

A few months passed. Visas were applied for, and furniture was sold or shipped. Franny got her first passport, her baby face goggling wide-eyed at the camera, as Carrie made sure to get her head the right size and angle for the picture. Carrie had taken the crib that her Dad made for Fran, along with the rocking chair. What were the odds she'd find someone, and have another baby? Still, the objects were comforting. The condo was listed, her bank account liquidated and transferred to Maggie, so she could wire her the money in a lump sum, when she opened a German bank account. She was at the old place, doing a final cleanout and getting it move-in ready for the realtor who would show it, when she answered a knock at the door. A nervous looking man stood there, scruffy beard, a white button-down shirt looking stiff and new on a barrel-shaped body that was more suited to camo and sweatshirts.

Carrie armed sweat from her forehead. "Can I help you? I'm kind of busy, here."

The guy swallowed. "My name is Rob. I work with Peter Quinn. He asked me to give this to you."

He held out a business sized envelope, her name across the front in Quinn's familiar scribble. She knew what it was. Her heart sank, her stomach almost dropped through the floor. Rob saw her horrified expression, and immediately started to stammer. "No. No, no, no, he's fine. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry to scare you. He's just fine."

Carrie switched gears. Fine? She shifted her eyes up to his, and frowned. "This is a fucking 'If I die' letter, isn't it? What do you mean he's  _fine_? And why are you  _giving_  it to me, if he is? Where the fuck  _is_  he? Did Dar Adal put you up to this?"

Rob's face turned red. "I know, I know. No, he didn't. Adal, that is. But Quinn really is fine. This is his idea. He can't be contacted. He can't be reached. But he called and asked me to give this to you." He looked down at his shoes, and continued. "I don't know why, Miss Mathison. But I can see why he's been thinking of you."

Carrie dropped her arms to her sides, and threw her head back. She gave a sarcastic bark of laughter, looking at the ceiling. She looked back at Rob, nearly leveled him with her gaze. "Why would anyone  _do_  this?" she said querulously, frustrated. Even in absentia, Quinn was exasperating. "I mean it, seriously, what does this _mean_? 'I'm not dead, but I'm  _dead to you_ ', is that it?  _Fuck_."

Her eyes were blazing. Rob looked down so he wouldn't have to look into them. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, running out of ways to be apologetic. Fucking Quinn, he owed him one for this. Whatever good it did, Rob couldn't say.

Carrie frowned. "He's fine, but can't be contacted, huh. Well, that's convenient. If and when you should come into contact with him, give him a message for me, will you?"

Rob looked up at her. "Sure, anything."

"Tell him I said to go fuck himself." She slammed the door in Rob's astonished face, and thrust the letter, unopened, into a box of paperwork, keepsakes. A big manila envelope containing Franny's first hospital photo and the tiny, shriveled remnant of her umbilical cord. A photo of her Dad and Maggie, holding a big trout on a line. And now, the sealed envelope from Quinn. Into the archives with the other lost memories, she thought. Fuck it. On with the future, before it gets on with me.

* * *

The following week, she and Franny got on a plane to London Heathrow, with the ultimate destination being Berlin, Germany. Their things were on the ship and would be there soon. But for the most part, it really was time for a fresh start. Wherever Quinn was, he wasn't with her. Not in body, and seemingly, not even in spirit. It was as if he had invited her to forget him. And she was trying.

Franny sat in her Mom's lap as the plane left the tarmac, and her mother sniffed her sweet baby hair as the plane put up its landing gear.

"Are you ready for a new adventure, baby? Because, I am."


	2. Lebensmüde

October 2015

* * *

"Come on Maggie,  _please_ ," Carrie cajoled. She was in the kitchen of her flat in Berlin, which after three months of occupation, was starting to feel a little more cozy. Carrie had shipped a few kitchen things, but soon by necessity had started to purchase the things she and Franny would need moving forward. A few towels and dishcloths, bright curtains for the kitchen window. A plastic placemat with A-B-C stenciled on it, and a dry-erase marker for Franny to scribble on it with. Franny was finger-feeding herself pretty effectively these days, so Carrie had piled sweet potato cubes on her tray and let her have at it. About half the food went into the mouth, she mused, the rest becomes a kind of hair treatment.

She cradled the phone in the crook of her shoulder as she pleaded with Maggie. "One more month. Can't you ship it?"

"Carrie, come on. You know you need a local doctor. I can ship your meds, but it's just a band aid. You need to get to know someone, find a counselor, and get your scripts from a local pharmacy."

"I don't  _like_  the chemist on the corner, Maggie, he has hair growing out of his  _ears_. Besides, I like seeing your name on my prescription bottles. You don't want me to run out of my meds, do you?" Carrie knew she was losing the battle, but hoped Maggie would bail her out for one more month.

"No, Carrie. I have some names for you. Write them down, and go see one of them. You need a local, English-speaking doctor. And you know it. I can speak to them for you, help pave the way. I  _have_  been your doctor in the past, but honey…"

Carrie sighed, and served some macaroni and cheese into a plastic dish, setting it before Franny along with a short-handled toddler spoon, hoping the kid would get the idea. "Yeah, yeah," she said, submerging a cookpot in the dishwater. "I get it. And I will. I just hoped for…"

Maggie cut her off. "You can't put it off, Carrie. Call me when you make the appointment."

"OK, OK. I will. How are Bill and the girls?"

The rest of the conversation was their usual catching up, domestic details, and finally, a warm goodbye. It was funny, she hadn't been that interested in Maggie's life or problems when she was in Islamabad. But being out of the Agency, it gave her time to breathe. Room to be a normal person, ask questions, and make mistakes. Maggie asked if she'd met any fine young men yet. Carrie laughed.

"Not yet. Nor many fine young women, either. I need to brush up on my German." She had a gift for languages, but any learning of that kind required some rehearsal.

"It'll come. Just keep practicing."

"I will, and thank Bill for the Rosetta stone set. I feel bad that I lost access to that when I left the Agency. We used to have any language in the world, on Rosetta stone, for free. Perks."

"I know. But you paid for it in other ways. Listen Carrie, I have to get back to my patients. I'll email you that list of English-speaking doctor's names, and follow up with you in a couple days. OK?"

"Yep. Love you."

She rang off, and Carrie sighed. It was evening on a Friday with a whole weekend of parenting ahead of her. Carrie was learning just how monotonous and grueling parenting – especially  _single_  parenting – could be. Every time Franny woke up in the night, Carrie was there. Every time the kid got ill during the workday, Carrie had to go home. Doctor visits, trips to the store, trip on the train to a local park or playground, all of that was arranged by Carrie. It was hard. But she was definitely leaving her past behind, emotionally for sure – other than photos of her Dad, Maggie, and Franny, framed and propped on top the old upright piano that had come with the flat, there were no reminders of her past at all. At least, she was trying.

She got along well enough with her work colleagues, all of whom seemed to be aware that she had had a few strings pulled for her, in order to get this job. Carrie did her best to be a "team player", brush up on her German or use uncomplicated English, and carry her weight in a group where it seemed some people had been in for 20 plus years. Her workmate, Gerhardt, explained briefly one afternoon at teatime:

"It's a government job. A big benefit. People wait for years to get a job like this. And they don't leave it."

It became clear to her that what might have seemed like a comedown to her former self, was actually quite a prize. And as cases were reviewed, information analyzed and her recommendations made, it became clear that Carrie was a valuable asset to the team. She was trying to become invisible, at least socially, at work. Not the best way to make friends, but that was ok for now. She had Franny.

She also had Franny's daytime caregiver, Anna. Anna was a trifle overweight, and a trifle too talkative for Carrie – she used Carrie to practice her English, and Franny too. But she was gentle, kind, and passed all the background screens (which were sent by the nanny agency, and then sneakily duplicated by Max, back Stateside. Anna checked out.). Anna's husband, Jens, was a country boy working a city job, and he was able to tell Carrie the names of all the best gardens, parks and outdoor venues in the city. "Try the Britzer Garden," he suggested. "They have the Makunaima, the best playground. And you must go to the Kollwitz Platz, they have a huge climber on the playground, shaped like garden vegetables. We will take you there, you'll see." Jens Baumann was proud of his adopted city, and the three were fast becoming friends.

The family had had Carrie and Franny to dinner, twice now, and Carrie enjoyed these evenings, basking in the warm glow of familial love with Anna, Jens, and their 13 year old daughter, Brigitte. Brigitte was a good student, a sweet girl who still didn't display any hint of the typical "sullen teen" behaviors Carrie would expect out of a 13 year old American girl – she sat Franny on the floor, showed her dolls and toys, and would have even changed her diaper, if Carrie would let her. "She is ready to babysit," cooed Anna. "I see that," Carrie said, charmed.

Jens looked fondly across the room, first at his wife and then at his daughter. Anna made eye contact with him, and smiled. It made Carrie feel the absence of another person in her life. Anna had probably warned Jens not to ask about Franny's father – during their meet-and-greet interview, Anna had asked about the family, and Carrie had said, "Franny's father passed away." Anna had gained major points with Carrie by acknowledging this sympathetically, and not mentioning it again.

So, Carrie thought to herself, it isn't like I have no one to talk to. But I certainly could use more friends. Some younger, single friends, maybe people who'd want to go out to a movie, or have a drink. And maybe even some male company, she thought. She forcibly willed herself to shove memories of Quinn, thoughts of Quinn, wondering about Quinn, into a dark closet in the back of her mind, stuff it down deep, and shut the door. She tried harder to bury her feelings about Quinn than she ever did with Brody – and that made sense to her. Quinn could have been a current and constant pain. Available, desirable and ready- at least, for one short, glorious moment, he was. Quinn was alive. But Brody was really gone. She remembered him every time she looked at Franny. Regardless of parentage, she had this delightful little girl, who was her own person. And together they were going to make a life for themselves. Wait and see if they didn't, she thought to herself.

Whenever she was tempted to backslide and wax poetical about Quinn, she remembered the way he had Rob deliver the letter. He had just disappeared, gone incommunicado, and at first she had blamed Dar Adal. But now she knew better. Quinn had wanted to disappear. He  _left her._  She tried to get him back, worried herself sick. She had done anything she could think of to contact him, to find out who could. So having his "letter" delivered with a no-contact clause was a slap in the face. She had thought... she admitted it to herself. She had thought that he loved her. What the hell had he been thinking? What had  _she_?

Fuck him, she thought. She would never read his fucking letter. Fuck him.

* * *

The next week, Carrie turned up at her first appointment with Dr. Johanna von Haller, a Swiss expat doing a healthy practice with English speaking patients (along with German, French, and Portugese, of all things, her business card said). Dr. von Haller had spoken to Maggie with Carrie's permission, reviewed her list of meds, and they had had a brief chat about the past, the future, and what life held for Carrie. Interestingly, Dr. von Haller was a Jungian, and asked about Carrie's dreams.

"I think they are a window into your mind," Johanna had said.

"I see," Carrie said. She wasn't sure she wanted anyone to have a window into her mind. It still felt like a pretty dirty view, at the moment. Mostly cobwebs and darkness. Still, she had always wished she could confide in those USA counselors and shrinks. Maybe it was time to turn over a new leaf. Part of her plan to start over, be a new person. She could try telling Dr. von Haller what she felt, what she dreamt and thought. And the doctor was sworn to secrecy. If she didn't like the feeling it gave, she could walk. Like any normal relationship, she thought.

"I'm bipolar, Maggie told you that." Carrie stated.

Dr. von Haller was impeccably dressed, about 10 years older than Carrie. She cast a level gaze at her, non-judgmental. If anything, she looked warm, and welcoming. "Yes, I heard. I understand. I agree with the diagnosis. But," she emphasized, sitting forward,  _"Why are you here?"_

Carrie had planned to hold back, but surprised herself by blurting out the truth. "I'm here, because I was a US agent in the intelligence forces. And I got pregnant with the child of a very… compromised person. I loved him. And he died," she finished. Brody's face passed through her mind, fleetingly. In the image, he nodded, approving. She swallowed, and looked at Johanna's face. Johanna nodded.

"And?" she said.

"And, I was posted to Islamabad. I left my baby with my sister. I tried to run my station, but a lot of bad shit went down," Carrie said.

"I see," said Dr. von Haller, nodding.

"And, when it was over, a lot of people got killed. I think it was my fault," she finished honestly. Her face was working and she thought she might cry. The doctor leaned over with a Kleenex box.

"And what else?" said Dr. von Haller. If anything Carrie had said rocked her world, she showed no sign of it.

"And, I got back to the States, and realized that… I wanted to be with… someone I knew from work. Someone I trusted. And he left me."

"Is that all?" said the doctor. She wasn't minimizing, just trying to get the scope of the disaster. Her blue eyes were calm and betrayed not a whit of concern. Anything Carrie said was within the realm of things she'd heard before. It was something they could work through. Carrie looked at her wise face, and understood that.

"There's more," Carrie said. "My father died, my Mom left us. My disease makes me… push people away."

"Yes," said Dr. von Haller. "That often happens. I can help you with that," she offered.

"Can you?" Carrie said, suddenly tearful and vulnerable.

"Yes," said Dr. von Haller. "I can. You have had an interesting, and admirable life. I can help with many things. I can help you be self-aware. I can help you see your motivations. You will have to do the work, of course," she finished, sitting back in her chair. For some reason, Carrie trusted this woman. She had seen a lot. And she wasn't lording it over Carrie, or trying to be her intellectual superior, or treat her like a crazy lady. She was really trying to help, and kindly, too. Carrie sighed.

"OK," admitted Carrie. "I think I can do the work."

"I think you can, too," said Dr. von Haller, with an almost mischievous smile. "But I want to ask you a few questions."

Carrie took a theatrically deep breath, and pushed it out, looking at her hands. "OK," she said, "I think I can answer them."

"Do you ever think about your child's father?" Johanna asked, not unkindly.

"Every day," Carrie admitted. "My daughter looks so much like him, she could be a, um, what do they call them?"

"Doppelganger? Yes, that would be a reminder. And what about the lost work colleagues, that you blame yourself for? Do you think of them?"

"Yes," Carrie admitted to her shoes. "I think about Fara. And Alan. Others, I didn't even know their names. I think about them."

"You feel guilty," Johanna observed.

"Yeah. I do," Carrie said.

"And this other man, the one you worked with. The one you have lost contact with. Do you think of him?" Dr. von Haller asked, quietly insinuating that she knew the answer.

Carrie raised her eyes, and lied to Dr. Johanna for the first time.

"No. Not at all," she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aficionados of the wonderful, late Robertson Davies will recognize a major character in his Deptford Trilogy, namely, Dr. Johanna von Haller. I respectfully acknowledge the character's genesis, wisdom, and class as a creation of Mr. Davies, and wish in my fondest dreams that I could write like him.  
> Oh, and I'd love to have my head shrunk by Johanna. Read "The Fifth Business" first, and then read, "The Manticore". Dr. v. H. is a dream. It will take her cleverness to uncover Carrie's desire to hamstring herself. Best of luck and love to everyone.


	3. Weltschmerz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know me, I’ll come back, if you want me to. Do you miss me, Miss Misery?
> 
> -Elliot Smith

October 2015

Istanbul, Turkey

* * *

The music throbbed and pulsed. Quinn leaned his head back, let the pounding bass possess him, let the alcohol perfuse his system. Let the heavy beat carry him away. Generally speaking, he was more of a Red Hot Chili Peppers kind of guy. He liked real guitars, and what he felt was authenticity in his music. Smoke spun around his head, green or maybe hash, clove cigarettes, and the occasional brush of cool, fresh air from the outside. Next to him, Rob relaxed and examined the full array of available womanflesh.

"Nice, huh?" Rob said.

Quinn had a pretty full load on. All he said was, "Yeah." There were plenty of beautiful girls. There always were. And Quinn was hot. It seemed like the more he ignored them, the faster they came.

"Yeah, lots of chicks."

"You know," Rob said, in a way he seemed to mean to be helpful. "That Carrie."

Quinn raised his head. He turned his bloodshot gaze towards Rob. "Yeah?" He said it in a way that suggested he might coldcock the bastard who didn't describe her in the way he wanted.

"Yeah, Carrie," Rob went on. He was unafraid of Quinn and relentless. "She really likes you, you know. I could tell by the way she went batshit."

Quinn stiffened. "You're full of shit, Stafford," he said. "Carrie never goes batshit. She probably tried to cut your balls off, and that's what you mean." He gave Rob a steely gaze, the gravity of which was evident even through the liquor.

Rob squirmed uncomfortably. "Yeah, well," he muttered, backpedaling, "Yeah. She didn't go batshit. But she likes you, Quinn."

Quinn turned facing forward again. "Liked me, Rob. Liked me. Past tense." The conversation, such as it was, was over. Quinn tried to sever the cable in his heart. It gave his soul, his heart, electric life. But he couldn't. He listened to the lyrics of the song, deep House and straight from the American and EU clubs, untranslated into Turkish, still here in the bald English they were written in.

_"Oh, then, it's enough to be better, if I could... Never let you go."_

Across the room, Quinn caught a woman giving him the eye. Slender. Not the youngest in the room, but he didn't want the youngest. But her hair was honey blonde, almost to her shoulder blades, her eyes were the right shape, and she was petite and slight.

Slight, but she had a nice bust, like... he liked. He told himself that he wasn't picking out a twin of his ghostly beloved. What a load of nonsense. She was just a short, cute, blonde, and he was an operative on leave.

A sweet girl, too. She was pliable, liked the drinks he bought, and required a minimum of his weakest jokes before going with him. He exuded a powerful masculine gravity, that much he knew. That made it easy. He used it and pulled the blonde into his bed for that night.

The eyes he saw as he climaxed- the sounds he imagined, the voice – only Quinn would ever know that. He was haunted. He crushed his eyelids shut and got the girl out of his room as soon as was gentlemanly possible.

He had a mental image to sustain, and an inward promise to keep. As fucked-up as it was, that was what he had to hold to. He held those images close as he fell into an uneasy, twitching sleep. His mind held her close as he let go of consciousness.

Being alone was easy. It was missing her that was unbearable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song at Quinn's Istanbul club is by Real, and it's called "Years and Years". I give credit to an unknown member of the C/Q tumblr community for turning me on to how perfect this song was for them... thank you, unknown friend.
> 
> "Oh, I think that If I had been enough for you,  
> Would I be better?  
> Would I be good?
> 
> And I'll do you what you like, if you’ll stay the night  
> You tell me you don’t think you should....  
> You do it, boy."
> 
> Real, "Years and Years"


	4. Erholung

January 2016

Berlin, Germany

Carrie and Gerhardt, along with some others from work, emerged from the pub. It was 5:30, half an hour past her usual time to arrive home. She had called Anna and asked for extra time, but she didn't want to push it too far. At this stage of her life, one drink was enough.

" _Danke_ ," she called. " _Bis Morgen._ " The group had their work happy-hour on Thursday, such as it was. On Friday, everyone hurried home to be with their family. Or their cat. Or their pet goldfish, she thought. Carrie had Franny, and Skyped with Maggie at least once a week. She stayed in better contact with her sister now, than when she was in Pakistan and Franny lived with Maggie. She sighed. How things change. You had to get with a new program, or spend the rest of your life swept along by what you called fate, cursing it all the way. She didn't want to be like that. Not for herself, not around her daughter. It could be different. She was finding her way.

She hustled through the cold and dark to her station on the U2 line of the U-bahn, grabbing the first subway to the  _Deut_ _s_ _che Oper_  stop. She had chosen the Grunewald in Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf for her long-term flat, based on a visit there one afternoon with Franny, and had spoken to some work friends about it.

"Oh,  _ja_ , Carrie. You could live there. It can be  _kostspielig._ But nice, very nice."

She had looked around, and they were right. It could be expensive. But she had found a very pretty, if small, flat off the  _Goethestrasse_ , right near Lietzensee. It was central, and very safe. She could put Franny in the jogging stroller, get some exercise and fresh air. It had a new kitchen, beautiful parquet floors, and a small balcony. She could picture herself and Franny cocooning themselves in this small space. And it was within their means. She leased it.

She had deployed some of Frank's furniture, and some new things she bought at the enormous XXXLutz, and the ever-present IKEA. Anna had brought a crocheted throw, and Carrie had warmed up the bedroom with a quilt she found at a car boot sale at the neighboring church. It had started to feel cozy, and they were both feeling settled in their routine. She had never expected to feel anything but trapped by motherhood – but had surprised herself by looking forward to their evenings. First just a bit, and finally, a lot. While she was at work, she missed the kid, Carrie admitted to Maggie one day. "Of course you do," Maggie said. "That's normal."

Normal. She hurried down her quiet residential street, nodding at other commuters in their neighborhood, all of them hustling to get home to warm meals and family. Suddenly, she couldn't wait to see Franny.

She took the last set of stairs to her walk-up two at a time, puffing as she unlocked the door of the fourth-floor flat. She burst into the room, smiling, to see Franny cruising on the piano keys, clinking away. Franny gave an excited squawk, let go of the piano, sat down on the ruffled butt of her diaper cover – Mrs. Lauber overdressed the kid, in her opinion, but it was not something she wanted to argue about – and started crawling toward Carrie. She stooped and held out her arms. "I'm home, baby girl. How was your day?"

Anna smiled indulgently at her from the small kitchen table, where she turned the pages of a recipe book. On the stovetop, something that smelled delicious – if a little overly caloric – was bubbling away. Carrie hoped she still had some salad makings in the fridge. "A  _gut_  day,  _ja_. She is walking two steps."

Carrie picked up the toddler and gave her a hug. Franny hugged her back, digging baby hands into her hair. "Are you really walking? Good job, honey. Come on, let's wash up for dinner." As the tiny arms tightened around her neck, Carrie closed her eyes and smiled.

* * *

Later that night, Carrie looked through the glass doors out onto the balcony. No snow, but it was bitterly cold. Too cold to even consider sitting outside. Carrie turned out all the lights, but left a single candle burning, and wrapping up in the crocheted throw, she sat back down on the couch with her iPad. A tough time of night for her, just before bed. She remembered recent visits with her wonderful counselor, and held her words close for strength.

"It's hard for me to sleep," she had admitted.

"Can you say why?" Dr. von Haller had asked.

"Too many ghosts," Carrie said. Dr. von Haller nodded wisely, and waited for Carrie to elaborate. She already understood.

It was so hard to sleep in the beginning, she had related, that she had to take an Ambien, "or two," she admitted, and drink a glass of wine to go to sleep. She hadn't wanted to hit the hard liquor, but she had done that a few times too, just to turn off the nightmare of Brody's death, and escape her guilt over abandoning her child. During the day, she was as ruthless and efficient as it was possible to be, she was as emotionless as the drones she directed. But at night, it was different. She had to wear a nightguard, she said, because she had been grinding her teeth at night. She had awakened some mornings in Islamabad, and in the US, with her pillow wet, as if she had been crying in her sleep. But she couldn't remember any dreams.

Nothing she said could shock Dr. Johanna. "You will start to remember them, eventually. And when you do, it will get easier to sort things out for you."

Carrie nodded. She didn't feel "fixed", really. She didn't think she felt better. She had just done a lot of talking, was all. She was on the same regular dose of her meds, though, and she hadn't had a manic flare, and little by little, she noticed she was sleeping better. One night, she forgot to take an Ambien, had nothing to drink, and she still slept like a baby, waking only when Franny called out for her at 6:30 – like a clock, that kid was. Or a Marine, she thought sadly. So much for sleeping in.

She related the night of good sleep to Dr. Johanna, who smiled like the Madonna. "We are getting there," said the doctor. "It takes time."

It certainly did. Carrie had been to 2 visits a week at first, then 1 visit a week, and in the preceding several months had laid out the history of her life for the doctor: her family, her abandonment by her mother. Her love for and grief over her father. The relationship with Brody, how it had blossomed despite impossible odds, sustained against all hope, and then been snuffed out when he was executed in Iran while she was pregnant.

"That loss, all by itself," Dr. von Haller suggested, "would be enough to give most people PTSD. Carrie, in many ways, you are a survivor of torture. It sounds like this is the first time in your life that you've allowed yourself the safety to feel, to tinker with your feelings, fine-tune them, if you will. And to craft the world around you. Carrie, you can have a relationship. You can pick the things and people that make you content - things will no longer 'just happen' to you. You will  _choose_  them. You can fine-tune your situations, and not be a victim of your condition. You cannot be tortured, unless that is your choice."

"I don't want to be tortured," Carrie said. "I want to choose something better. Something real."

"You can choose love, too." Dr. von Haller suggested.

Carrie gaped. She hadn't thought of it that way. Since the conversation with her mother had come so late, she'd not given thought to a relationship since… since her father died. And when she moved to Germany, she was determined to start over. But the picture had not included a partner, another person to share her life and her bed with. Maybe it should.

* * *

The following week, Carrie had a dream that she could remember. She had stopped taking Ambien, had left the bottle in the cabinet, but no longer felt she needed it. She woke from the dream feeling curiously refreshed, and jotted down a note or two, so she wouldn't forget the details for Dr. von Haller.

"Well, how was this week?" asked Dr. von Haller when Carrie arrived, offering her the usual cup of strong, scalding, Viennese coffee. Johanna was the only person Carrie had ever encountered who liked coffee stronger than she did.

"I had a dream," she offered immediately. The doctor's eyebrows went up.

"I want to hear it all," she said, and seated herself in the brocade wingback chair, adjusting her sensible wool skirt over her knees. "Leave nothing out."

"I was going to go swimming. I was near the water, a lot of water. A big lake or the ocean. It was a hot day, and I couldn't wait to get into it."

"Go on."

"I was about to stick my toes in, and then I heard someone crying. I looked around, and there was a kid there. A teenager, really. She was crying. Someone had done something horrible to her. She couldn't stop them. I don't know what, but she cried and cried."

Johanna said nothing, but nodded.

"I went to her, put my towel around her shoulders. I sat with her until the ambulance came. She looked into my eyes as they loaded her into it. She said, "don't let them take me," but I said, "They won't hurt you, they're going to help you." She said, "I can't do it by myself." And so I left the water. I didn't go swimming like I wanted to, but went with the girl."

Johanna nodded. She was silent for a moment, to see if Carrie would come up with any other details.

"So, the water looked good. It would have been pleasurable, yes?"

"It looked great."

"And, the girl was needy. She wanted your attention, but she was keeping you from the pleasure, yes?"

"It seems like it. I couldn't leave her. Are you already interpreting my dream?" Despite herself, Carrie was fascinated. The Jungian had some very interesting ideas.

"In the end, it will be up to you to interpret the dream. So you must tell me, what do you think it means? I would hear your ideas first."

"Um," Carrie started uncertainly. "Is the girl Franny? Am I just worried about my daughter?"

"I am sure you're worried about your daughter every day, even if there is no emergency. I think this dream might show you something closer to home." But what could that be?

Johanna took a deep breath, and leaned back in the chair, setting her coffee cup to one side. "We Jungians believe that dreams reveal aspects of ourselves. In time, I think we could get to recognize aspects of ourselves in all the people that populate our dreams – and even some of the objects. From my point of view, the girl is your diseased self. The part of you that is so needy that you do not get the pleasure. Water often represents the subconscious, and that it looked pleasant to you is a good sign. You wanted to dip into it, which means you wanted to explore your own mind and know yourself better. It didn't feel like a chore. But you felt you had to serve your diseased self, because fear of failing that part of yourself is so great. You couldn't leave it be, you had to continue to minister to it, like a needy infant."

Carrie said nothing. It was astounding. Six months ago she would have said talk therapy was a load of malarkey, and this kind of thing a complete load of shit. But it made sense.

"So," Carrie said slowly, thinking. "What am I supposed to be learning?"

"You are already learning it. So you tell me." Dr. von Haller was big on independence, which could be annoying at times.

"It means, I am the only one holding myself back. I'm the only one thinking about my condition, about how it affects my life. I baby it, so I miss out on things." Boy, if that wasn't the truth. The intensity of Quinn's face that night by his truck flickered through her mind, his sincerity, his desire for her, his  _need_  for her. She forced it back down.

"That sounds very close to what I would have said, Carrie," said Dr. von Haller.

At the end of her session, she walked Carrie to the door. After Carrie put her coat on, Dr. von Haller surprised her by holding out her arms. Carrie walked into them for a reassuring hug.

"Your condition is well controlled on your medication. You can mother your daughter, and choose something else for yourself. The girl - she is ok, it is ok to send her in the ambulance. And go swimming in the water, Carrie. Try it."

Carrie stepped out into the frigid late afternoon, nevertheless, she moved slowly towards the subway entrance. She had a lot to think about . There was lingering pain around the thoughts of Quinn, and she gave herself a full ten minutes of reverie, turning over in her mind what she had felt for him. What she had hoped to feel for him, and how badly she wanted to find him. She remembered his kiss, his hands. Tried her best to recall exactly how it felt to be in his arms, and wanted more.

Then she resolutely shut the ambulance door on that one, and let it drive away. Wishing did not make things come true, but actions did. She could pick different actions. And who knew what was around the corner?

She hurried home to Franny.

* * *

"She's warm," Anna said worriedly. Anna had telephoned her at work, and asked her to come home and look at Franny. The child was flushed, lying on her back in light pajamas, eyes half closed, sucking her thumb. Carrie touched her forehead, her neck. The kid was hot as an oven door.

"And she pulls on  _die ohren,_ the ears." On cue, Franny reached up and fretfully pulled on her ears. "Mama," she said sadly.

"Thanks, Anna. I'll call the pediatrician."

" _Ja_ , is best," Anna said. "Call me later, tell me how it is with the doctor?"

"I will," Carrie said, and started to dial Dr. Schmitt's office.

* * *

"Come in out of the cold," greeted the Maria, the front office girl at the doctor's office. Maria was German to the core, but had spent four years in the US with her husband. "Univeristy of Chicago," she said proudly. "I still miss eating at Charlie Trotter's." Carrie didn't have the heart to tell her it was closed.

"Poor Franny," Maria cooed. "I'll get Veronika to put you in an exam room immediately." Franny fussed and wiggled on Carrie's lap, miserable with her ear pain and simmering with fever.

"Oh," Maria said. "Frau Professor Doctor Schmitt got called to the hospital for an emergency perinatal visit. Her resident agreed to come and cover the office this afternoon. Do you have any objection to seeing a pediatric resident? He's  _very_  good. And Herr Professor Doctor Wagner would be overseen by our family practice doctor, Herr Professor Doctor Klein."

"Sure, fine," Carrie said, fed up with the ridiculous strings of honorifics that Germans used. She still thought it was ridiculous that she must refer to Dr. Schmitt as Frau Professor Doctor, but it was helpfully pointed out to Carrie by friend Gerhardt at work, that she must use the "Professor" part.

"It means she has a doctorate as well," he said. "If a woman marries a doctor, even if she has no education, she is called 'Frau Doctor,' so in a sense, that means nothing." Carrie had rolled her eyes. But Dr. Schmitt had solved the issue for Carrie the first time they met, by shaking her hand and insisting, "Call me Claudia."

Carrie followed nurse Veronika into the exam room where Franny suffered herself to be weighed, and her temperature taken. "38.5," said the nurse, clucking her tongue. "Poor  _liebchen_. I'll let the doctor know you're ready."

Carrie had waited less than 5 minutes, when a tall, fit gentleman in his thirties knocked, then poked his head around the corner. His blue eyes were framed by glasses with gold frames, and the corners of his eyes crinkled cheerfully when he spoke. He wore a white shirt and tie with little DNA molecules twisting over it. Carrie smiled in spite of herself. When he opened his mouth to speak, Carrie was surprised to hear that his English was almost entirely without a German accent. His smile was warm, friendly. She could tell within the first 30 seconds, that he was kind.

"Frau Mathison? I'm Dr. Wagner. But you should call me Markus. Shall we have a look at your little one?"


	5. Nahtoderfarung

January, 2016

Sana'a, Yemen

* * *

The bullet clipped the plywood right next to Quinn, and threw low-level shrapnel into his face – wooden fringes of devilish destruction, intent upon applying Hell to the fired-upon, the shooter a loose devil from Hades, now that he had them pinned down. Quinn closed his eyes.

Quinn winced back against the barrier, and wondered where Dale and the rest of the team were. He knew the wall was really more like a barrier generated from Kleenex and spit, when it came to the fire that the anti-Al Qaeda rebels had leveled at them. He and his buds, they were pinned down, but good. And they knew it. There were a lot more of the Houthi rebels than there was of them, the American operatives going in to break up the Houthi coup. They were the literal long arm of the law, and it was being cut off. Shia Houthis, Sunni Al Qaeda, and a few American operatives pinned down, trying to take out a cell of bad guys. It was all the same to them, an American was an American. An Infidel who deserved to die, in any case.

Poor timing, the higher-ups would say. Which didn't begin to describe what it felt like to be there. It was going to be a very long night.

Quinn closed his eyes, and for some reason, remembered the most beautiful  _Adhān_  he had ever heard. He felt like he might be near death, and he didn't usually feel like that. The voice of the  _muezzin_  had moved him, that one time, in Islamabad. That was unusual for him, since he didn't have any religious belief to speak of. The man had a gift and the voice was literally a thing of God, if there was one – ridiculous in Quinn's world, where there was no supreme being, and he didn't believe in the possibility, anyway. But that afternoon, with bullets, shrapnel, and the filth of the Yemeni capital floating into the air around him, he allowed himself the moment.

To drift. To feel. And to be present. To tell the truth, to Allah, to himself, to whoever would listen. If the end was near, what would it matter?

He loved her. That was the truth. He might die tonight, but he loved Carrie Mathison. He had since he'd seen her, since the Yoga class where he'd waited like a twitching maniac for her to emerge, since the hospital, since the moment the team had been required to shoot her- a moment in time, one she had survived, but which had nearly killed him.

It didn't matter. He'd sent his letter ahead, so she'd know his feelings. He hoped she'd read it. If she'd really  _cared for_ him, she'd have read it. She must have. She'd have seen the words he scrawled, brief though they were. She'd have found him in his cell in DC, repairing himself from a spectrum of wounds, mental and physical. If she'd read the letter, she'd have found him and fixed him. She'd have made him whole, with her body, with her love. With her eyes and her life. But she hadn't come. She must not have felt the same. Still, he regretted the decision only for himself. She was better off without him.

Quinn leaned back and felt the bullets pound the wood around him. He felt, even hoped, that somehow he'd be killed by the firefight. But no, his luck seemed to be holding.  _Fuck_.

In his mind, a memory of blonde hair, of smooth, pale skin was locked and closed away, as his hand chambered another round and moved into action.

"Rob," he shout-whispered. "You're on point. Let's go."


	6. Frieden

July 2016

_Botanischer Garten und Botanisches Museum_

Berlin, Germany

"See the fishies? Orange fishies,  _Häschen_. There they are," Markus said. He pointed into the water, where huge koi circled lazily. Franny peered over the edge, her eyes following the creatures' movements. Behind them, Carrie sat on one of the benches, keeping an eye on the stroller and Franny's diaper bag. She was enjoying this Sunday outing, the location, the company, everything about it. The Greenhouse complex at the Botanical Gardens was enormous – there was so much to see. The sky had threatened rain earlier, but now blue skies prevailed. Carrie had wondered aloud if they should choose an outdoor venue, lest it be rained out. But Markus' optimistic attitude had brought her around.

"If it rains, we duck inside the greenhouses. If it is sunny, we go outside. Come on, I want to show you two more of my city," he'd said, smiling.

She had acquiesced, and was glad she did. Markus had been right; there was so much to see. Franny would be worn out long before they had seen it all. And Carrie was enjoying herself, all three of them moving together in an unhurried way, speaking of inconsequential things, like any other family visiting the gardens that day. She was surprised to feel something like contentment.

As they strolled through the Italian Gardens, a riot of color gathered into organized form, Markus reached out and took Carrie's hand, pushing the stroller with the other. Franny rode peaceably in the stroller, her love bunny in hand, and her thumb engaged. It was only 12:30, but her eyes were dropping to half-closed. Behind Markus's spectacles, his eyes twinkled. And perhaps nobody was more surprised than Markus himself that they were together, on a Sunday park date, considering how their relationship started.

* * *

The previous winter, Markus had treated for an ear infection. During the short conversation, Markus had gotten to speak to the child's mother, who was beautiful in that blonde All-American long-stemmed rose kind of way. Dr. Wagner, despite his supposed professional distance, was interested. The child's mother asked good questions, and was clearly taking in the answers. She was clever. Beyond that, though, there was something about her that he found terribly attractive.

Markus was taken immediately. At some point in the conversation, he had asked, a little foolishly, "American women wear the wedding band on the left hand, don't they?"

"They do if they're married," Carrie had replied, her voice dead of inflection. "Franny's father is deceased."

Markus felt like an ass, but he had the information he wanted. "I'm so sorry to hear that, Frau…  _Miss_  Mathison. Would you please bring Franny for a recheck in 14 days? I want to be sure the antibiotic worked. And if her fever goes higher, call me immediately, yes? This is my card," he said, giving Carrie his professional business card with his cell number, instead of the number of the office. She barely looked at him, or it. He didn't want the child to be more sick, but he did hope she'd call.

But the antibiotic worked, and Carrie hadn't called. So he arranged to be at the neighborhood clinic working with Dr. Klein the day of Franny's checkup. When he entered the exam room, he was so tongue-tied that he felt like an eighth grade boy, asking for a date to the school dance.

"So, Franny is doing better?"

"Yes," Carrie said, stroking the child's fluffy ginger hair. "She's lots better."

"Very good," Markus said, examining the child's ears. She sat on Carrie's lap, and as he leaned in, he smelled Carrie's perfume, or whatever she wore, and it didn't help him feel more levelheaded, that was for sure. He gulped.

"Looks good," he said, shutting off the light of his scope. "She's well. And very happy," he observed. Carrie smiled.

"Miss Mathison, there is a beautiful park near here," Markus started uncertainly. "It has a nice playground for the younger children. That she could enjoy," he said.

"Yes?" Carrie said, still trying to understand why he was telling her this. Of course, this district was full of parks. That's why they'd moved here.

"I think Franny would like it. And nearby, there is a restaurant. Reinhard's Landhaus. Have you ever been there?"

"No, I don't think so," Carrie said, frowning.

"Miss Mathison," Markus sighed, "What I am proposing is sad," he said. He hoped that she perceived him as appealing. He didn't feel old, but he had been through several serious relationships. None had ever taken. Still, he felt compelled to try to spend time with this woman. So he took a chance.

Carrie's eyebrows went up. "Sad?" She waited for him to finish.

"Yes, because if you allow me to take you on a date, I wouldn't be able to be Franny's doctor any more. Not officially, anyway."

Carrie was taken aback at first. She laughed quietly, but not cruelly. All of Johanna's recent urging had been toward taking emotional chances, trying new things, and developing intimacy. This situation felt awkward as hell, and she recognized that the doctor knew it. But he also seemed to think that this inappropriate situation – that she herself - was worth a risk. She took a deep breath.

"I can't believe you just asked me that," she said. Dr. Wagner's face fell.

"But, yes," she said a second later. They smiled at each other. "On one condition."

He waited for her to state it, but said nothing.

"Franny comes with us," she said.

Markus smiled. "Of course! It would be a pleasure."

Right, she thought. Pediatrician. Of course he likes kids. It would be a relief to find a companion who wasn't afraid of being around a single mother.

Grinning and embarrassed but victorious, Markus gave Franny one more pat on the head, and finalized plans with Carrie, as they exchanged phone numbers. She walked away from the office that afternoon with a spring in her step. Even if the date was a disaster, it was nice to be asked.

* * *

But it hadn't been a disaster. It had been pleasant. Markus was perfectly polite and gentle, delightful with Franny, and had provided them a Saturday afternoon diversion of lunch and a few hours at a petting zoo and playground, bundled up against the cold. Lunch conversation was tentative at first, but Dr. Wagner was as friendly and open as he had originally seemed.

It was a relief to socialize with him because his English was fabulous, as a result of his first residency at Mt. Sinai.

"Wow. Manhattan?"

"Yes, Icahn School," he said. "I thought I wanted to be a neurologist. But my first interest is public health, particularly children," he finished. "That's ambitious," Carrie had observed. "Most people don't want to suffer through residency twice."

"Perhaps I'm  _verrückt_ ," he said, grinning.

"Somehow, I don't think so," Carrie replied, laughing quietly.

He asked about her background, her education, and she responded in kind. He was fascinated that she was doing intelligence work.

"So, you are a professional at keeping secrets?" he said, smiling. "I don't think I have any."

"Everyone has secrets, Dr. Wagner," Carrie said.

"Please, call me Markus. And I will not ask after yours, indeed, we all need privacy. But I want to get to know you." His blue eyes were so earnest behind the wire frames. Something about his open manner encouraged her to trust. The least she could do here would be to make a new friend. She told Markus about Maggie, and her Dad. The barest of outlines of Franny's father, and a bit more about how she'd dealt with his loss. They walked to the edge of the park pond, and stopped there. Before she knew it, she had shared a few sentences with him about her "condition", her search for contentment and inner peace, and her determination to make a good life for her daughter.

"A worthy goal. Contentment is something we all could use more of," he said, putting a handful of food pellets into Franny's mittened hand, to feed the ducks with. Franny squealed with delight as the flock gathered around her, and flung the pellets, haphazard, in every direction.

"Do you have it?" Carrie asked, boldly.

He regarded her, his eyes unguarded and plain, his breath blowing out plumes of white into the chilly air. "I have contentment right now. That's good enough, no?"

Carrie smiled. He was an uncomplicated person. In spite of herself, in spite of her low expectations, Markus had charmed her.

Later, after Franny had fallen asleep in the stroller, piled with blankets, they sat quietly down at an outdoor café to rest their feet, and Markus brought Carrie a cappuccino. She warmed her hands on it, breathing in the delicious steam. "I hope you had a good time today," he said. "Because I'd like to see you again."

Carrie looked at her hands. "Markus," she said, "I'm not sure what I'm ready for. I'm not sure if… I can be with anyone right now."

He sighed. Looked at her. "I understand," thinking he'd been turned down.

"No," Carrie insisted. "I don't think you do. It's not even about Franny's father, not any more. It's about…" Once again, Quinn's eyes on hers, under the night sky. The memory of his kiss flashed through her mind. She could  _see_  him, almost. Her heart cramped. Then, she took a breath, sipped her coffee. Shoved the image aside. Quinn was gone. Was the rest of her life going to be like this? Getting ready  _for_  something, but never getting  _to_  anything? It had to stop.

She felt vulnerable and exposed, as Markus studied her kindly. It was frightening. But the greater fear was living a completely undeveloped and unexplored life. What good was any of it, if she couldn't find pleasure in life, in parenting, in love? Johanna had pushed her to this, and she took a deep, brave breath.

"Markus, I'm sorry," she said, her hands flat on the café table, and sweating, even in the chilly air. "You might have to be patient with me. But I'm not saying no. I'm saying…" she trailed off. She remembered the last time her lack of direct language was interpreted as "No." She resolved never to feel that regret again.

"I don't have the best track record with relationships," she offered. Understatement of the century, she thought. Still, she could be up front about that.

He said nothing, but smiled and raised his eyebrows, and waited.

"But, yeah, I'd like that," she finally said. His smile widened, and the edges of his eyes crinkled. He  _was_  awfully cute.

He kissed her on both cheeks at the afternoon's conclusion, thanking her for a lovely day. It really had been.

* * *

"So," she said, holding Franny on her knee in front of the Skype camera, almost not wanting to start the flood of questions from Maggie, but still anxious to tell.

"So?" Maggie waited.

"We, I mean _I_ , met someone," Carrie said.

Six weeks had passed. Carrie and Franny had been on four more dates with Markus. He'd taken them out to the children's theater, to the Kindermuseum, and to the Tiergarten. That last visit to the "big zoo" as Franny called it, had worn the kid to a frazzle. Markus had carried Fran up the four flights of stairs and lain her directly in her bed. "She will sleep until morning," he predicted. Good thing they had eaten dinner at the park. The weather was warming up, and time in the outdoors was much more enjoyable.

Partially closing Franny's bedroom door, Carrie turned to walk Markus to the front door. He surprised her by catching her wrist, and pulling her back to him.

"I don't want to rush you," he said, his hands gripping hers. "I don't want you to feel pressure, because I care for you. But I'd like to see you...  _alone_ , too, Carrie."

He was sweet. He was kind. But he didn't really turn her on, to be perfectly honest. From her perspective, they had very little chemistry. He was so clean-cut and safe that their relationship felt almost fraternal. Clearly, Markus felt something else, something stronger.

"You're not rushing me," she said. If he only know about her checkered past, and tendency to jump into bed just for the satisfaction of a fling. This was the slowest she'd ever taken anything… except, of course, for Quinn. And that just hadn't happened for them.

Markus kissed her, and spent that night at her place. And if stars hadn't emotionally exploded in the heavens, well, at least he was attentive and knowledgeable about female anatomy. She smiled to herself, remembering.

On the other end of the video call, Maggie was waiting, impatiently, watching Carrie appear to daydream, and Franny squirm. "Well?" she said, stridently. "Who did you meet?"

"A really nice guy, Maggie," she said. And started at the beginning.

* * *

So the rest of the spring and summer had gone by, and Carrie and Markus had spent more and more time together. If her lack of interest in their periodic bedroom interludes showed at all, Markus didn't notice. Or if he did, he still had the good manners to act satisfied. She kept her eyes closed a lot, was all. Dr. von Haller was proud of Carrie for taking a chance, but cautioned that she should still take it slow.

"You know," Johanna had said, "He sounds safe as houses. But not very challenging for you."

"Oh, now come  _on_ ," Carrie objected, familiar enough with the doctor to argue with her. "First you tell me to get into a relationship, now you want me to pick someone else?"

"I didn't say that you should get into a relationship, and I didn't tell you to pick someone else. I'm just saying that being in a relationship with a very nice, accepting person who doesn't challenge you doesn't usually result in growth. Does he fill your heart, Carrie?" Johanna asked. She looked thoughtfully at Carrie, and her eyes seemed sad.

"He…" Carrie started. "No. But he bandaged it."

"Well," said Dr. von Haller, leaning back. "Perhaps he is the right choice for now, then. A season of healing and gentleness, with a benign person who seems to lack any bad qualities."

"He has terrible taste in movies," she offered.

Johanna snorted. "That doesn't count as a character flaw."

"I like him," Carrie protested.

"Good. So you should. But you are not the kind of woman who will settle, long term, with someone who doesn't excite you, complete you. He is good to you, and that is wonderful . But you cannot eat mashed potatoes without salt every meal for the next forty years. You need pickles and mustard," she said, lapsing into one of her food metaphors. Carrie rolled her eyes, but tucked the advice away.

So, she went on with Markus. He helped her around the apartment. He played with Franny. Anna and Jens adored him. He filled their time on the weekends. When she got sick with the flu, he brought her flowers and new, fluffy towels from IKEA – Anna had already taken care of the chicken soup. The thing that struck Carrie was that she was no longer lonely.

It been a fine day, and they were all exhausted from walking the Botanical Gardens. They had all gone to bed early, but it was not a peaceful night for Carrie. Waking up suddenly in bed that night from a barely-remembered dream, the dark of the July evening close around them both, Carrie shuddered, turned on her side, and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Markus's even breathing hadn't changed, and she was alone with her night thoughts, as usual.

And it was only in the dark of night that she felt it, and knew the truth of it –  _not being lonely isn't enough_.


	7. Träumerei

July 2016

Somewhere over the Atlantic

* * *

"Iraq, again," Rob observed. "What a fucking shithole."

"Yeah," said Quinn. He appeared to be completely absorbed in cleaning his weapon, checking and rechecking the clip, going over the roster in his mind, and mentally reloading. Another month, another deadly mission to strike terrorist cells, one foot in the desert of the Muslim world, the other in the afterlife. The danger they were in this time couldn't be exaggerated, and the self-extract required at the end was a more distinct hazard than usual. They were to strike, disperse, and flee into obscurity. Quinn thought that they'd be lucky to have 80 percent of the team return and pick up their danger pay. But after the last year and a half, he felt like he'd extinguished pretty much all his feelings about that, or anything else.

"Asshole?" Rob asked, inquiring kindly after Quinn's state of mind.

"Douchenozzle," Quinn replied, looking down, and not giving anything away.

"You ready for this?" Rob asked, tugging at the field straps of his AK.

"Yeah," Quinn said, shortly. "But he's not," he said, indicating Dale, sitting across from them on the transport, absently staring out a window. He had the thousand yards.

"Huh," Rob said, "I think he'll be ok. It's just that last time was his first accidental kill."

"Friendly fire is a bitch," Quinn observed. He knew how Dale felt, at least he could remember what it was like to care about that, or anything else. The last year or so, he had come to a place where he felt a pronounced lack of concern about his chosen profession, its consequences, or anything else.

He remembered the kid in South America. Carlos. How he had tried to explain to Carrie that their actions were blatantly making relations worse in all these countries, not better. She had cussed him out and accused him of having his foot on the brake. Well, fuck, Carrie, you were right. My mistake was not flooring the accelerator. During the days, eyes open, he didn't give a fuck one way or the other – enemies made, casualty lists on his side, or even the pregnant woman he was pretty sure he clipped last month on the mission in Syria.

He felt a brief throb of pity, then forced it back down. He and his team were merchants of death, and that was all. All someone had to do was point the way, and there they'd be, checking names off a kill list. It was what he'd accused her of doing in such a machinelike fashion, and now here he was, doing the same. With no one to answer to but Adal, and no one to care, it had gotten a lot easier. Almost automated.

He finished fooling with his weapons, and leaned back, soon falling into an uneasy doze. Of all the feelings he'd tried to destroy, of all the human warmth and kindness he tried to switch off, his feelings for Carrie were dying the hardest. He hadn't gone to counseling, or any of that useless shit, but he'd tried his best to forget her. But he didn't snuff it out completely, not with alcohol, not with sex, not with anything. He knew that, because she visited him while he was sleeping. He had given up trying to stop it, and started to just roll with it.

He was lucky, this was a pleasant dream. In it, her answer had been different. It was so much better, oh God. He missed her. He slipped deeper into sleep and let the dream take him away.

* * *

He was lying on his bed in the DC apartment, the night after Carrie's father's funeral. He was agitated and unable to sleep. He turned and looked at the clock: it was 3:03 AM. There was no chance of sleep this night, so he simply lay there and reviewed the evening in his mind. Playing with the baby, talking with Carrie's sister. Drinking whiskey and laughing with Carrie. And finally, kissing her, tasting her lips at last, even better than he'd thought.

His iPhone pinged, and he reached for it.

"You awake? I can't sleep" the text message said briefly.

"Neither can I" he thumbed back groggily.

"Come get me" the next message came a second later. In his dream, Quinn lurched out of bed and dressed urgently.

His dream went foggy until he pulled up outside Maggie's house. Carrie was standing fully dressed on the porch, purse over her shoulder, the porch light on. He saw her face in the lamplight, saw him mouth his name. "Quinn," she said, coming down the walk. "I left a note for Maggie. Take me home." He reached for her, to kiss her and hold her. He was going to take her back to his place. Everything would be alright. Her arms clutched his midsection, pressing his ribs and back…

* * *

"Is everything alright? Asshole?" Rob was poking him in the ribs. "Wake up, it's time."

Quinn sat up, and shook his head. "Fuck," he said, cursing the cold, the loss of the dream, the moment altogether. "Fuck my life. Yeah."

"I'm ready."


	8. Kaput

February 2017

Landstuhl Regional Medical Center

Germany

* * *

"What a cluster," sighed Rob, rubbing the bruise on his forehead.

Quinn adjusted his arm in the sling. He was hit, but hadn't been badly injured. "Muscle damage, mostly," the surgeon had pronounced. "You're lucky."

But Quinn didn't feel lucky. He and Rob had been well enough to buck Dale's unconscious body out of the wilderness north of the city of Homs, essentially highjack a passing market truck (with a pathetically small crate of nuts and lemons in the back as freight) and force someone to assist them in passage back to Tripoli, Lebanon. From there, they were evacuated to Germany on a series of vehicles, finally ending up on a Medivac to Landstuhl where Dale's vitals had been stabilized, but had not improved. Self-extract, my ass, Quinn thought. Nobody could do this.

The life-support machines bleeped continuously, which aggravated Quinn's headache. The smell of the hospital disinfectant didn't help either. He knew Dale had a traumatic brain injury from the explosion that blew near the final firefight, and suspected he might have a mild concussion himself. But, he said nothing.

An exhausted looking Army nurse in scrubs came into the room, checked Dale's drip, and looked at his chart. He looked up at Quinn and Rob.

"Family?" he asked.

"No," said Quinn. "But we called them."

"They should come," the nurse said forebodingly. A moment later, the doctor entered.

Rob spoke up. "I know there are rules," he said. "But can you tell us anything?"

"We relieved the pressure on his brain, but I don't know if that will be enough to assure full recovery," said the doctor. "Nothing to do but wait."

Quinn looked at his shoes. The headache was fierce.

"And you," the doctor said, directing his gaze at Peter. "You need to rest. Do you have a place to stay? Can you go on leave?"

Quinn shook his head, hoping to clear the cobwebs. "I can go on leave," he said. "I just have to call."

"You shouldn't drive. Not yet," said the doctor.

Peter grimaced. Behind the pain, some light had gone on in his head. Maybe it was the most recent near death experience, the misery of getting Dale out of the Middle East, or their unlikely arrival back in the West. In fact, it was amazing that any of the three of them was still alive, after the last strike. Quinn felt compelled, and felt like the next thing he did would be the last decision he'd ever make. With the tone of a man ordering his last meal on death row, he answered the doctor.

"I won't," said Quinn. "Where I'm going, I can take the train."

Rob's eyebrows went up, but he knew better than to ask.

Quinn stopped at the foot of Dale's bed, and looked at him for a moment. Then, he walked out of the room without any other goodbyes.

"Have fun, asshole," Rob called after him, with a touch of longing.


	9. Enthüllung

February 2017

 _Goethestrasse_ , Berlin, Germany

* * *

"Thanks for your help," Carrie said, as Markus moved the last of her things up from the first-floor locked storage closet. "I've been meaning to go through this stuff for 2 years." She was planning on sifting the boxes shipped from the US for any mementos worth keeping - as well as to find something else. Markus had not yet proposed that they move in together, but it was probably coming, she thought. At the moment, she didn't have a good reason to say no.

"Want some help going through the boxes?" he said curiously. Ugh. Another way to keep tabs on her.

"Um, no," she said. "I'll do it later."

She smiled tightly. She told herself she had been mostly happy dating Markus, but sometimes she wondered. Over the previous six months, some irritating things had emerged in their relationship and they bothered her a bit. But Carrie decided she'd have to take that in stride, if she was going to move on with her life.

She didn't think he meant be pushy, but sometimes he was. He was attentive, yes, but Markus' kindness seemed to cover a stubborn possessiveness, a desire to control, that hadn't been immediately apparent. He was always asking where she was going, what she was doing, and who she was talking to. At first she wrote it off to curiosity, but he had been so persistent. "Who was that? Where did you go? I missed you," he'd say, trying to soften the end message. Carrie hadn't had any reason to lie, but the practice annoyed her. She was a very independent person, and more than once, they'd had an argument about it. When he got too inquisitive or nosey about her thoughts, or his questioning was too strident, she'd just flake out and disappear out of his life for a few hours or days, which annoyed the hell out of Markus in turn. She tried to tell herself that it was a minor issue. They'd just have to learn to put up with each other.

Deep in her heart, she felt like the unease that had gathered around this otherwise healthy-seeming relationship was something she deserved. She had discussed it with Dr. Johanna, at their last appointment.

They were down to one visit a month, which was Carrie's idea. She said, "Think I've learned enough?"

"Well, certainly," said the doctor, "if you're comfortable, then there's no need to meet every week."

"I guess I am," she said. "Mostly. But I don't think Markus and I are... one hundred percent compatible."

Johanna had shrugged. That was up to Carrie.

"And, I still feel guilt. About my team. I still feel like I'm...  _paying for it_. Or that I will be. That I deserve whatever happens. You know?"

"Paying for it, how? How were all these deaths your responsibility only? You know they were not, if that is what you mean," Johanna said kindly.

"Oh. I don't know. I just feel…" How to finish that one? Bored? Not exactly, but sometimes. But normal life  _is_  boring, she told herself. Unhappy? No, not in truth. But not that happy, either. It almost felt like her meds weren't right, but she was unwilling to fool around with them.

"Empty," she said finally. "Something is unfinished. I'm not done paying, I'll never stop paying," she said, feeling more distraught.

Johanna said nothing for a while, just let the statements lay. Then, she said, "Carrie, you need to figure out  _what_  is unfinished. Really, I think you know what it is, though you avoid discussing it."

Carrie looked at the floor.

"You don't have to tell me, or anyone else. But until you do, it will torment you," Johanna warned. Carrie sighed.

She knew what was unfinished. She had wanted to finish it, to find him, to make it right. But she hadn't been able to. She thought again of the letter, and asked Markus that night to help her carry the boxes upstairs. He was waiting for an invite, but she told him she needed to sleep. He had kissed her cheek, and left.

After he had gone home and Franny was asleep, Carrie started sifting through the boxes. Photos of her Dad fell out, wrenching her heart. Happier memories with Maggie had her smiling through the tears – her ten-year-old self, standing next to Frank, holding a game ball from the Orioles season opener in 1988. Maggie graduating high school, and 14 year old Carrie standing nearby, with 90's hair and a floral dress she had worn against her will – "Come on, Carrie, wear it for me?" Maggie had begged, forbidding the usual jeans and a t-shirt. And then, into her lap fell a business sized envelope with her name on it.

Her heart started to pound as she tore it open. She should have done this ages ago, gotten some closure, she scolded herself.

She found a letter wrapped around a letter.  _Fuck. Two letters?_

Confronted with the knowledge that Quinn had written a letter to her before his initial ship-out, and then evidently written  _another_  one to send with it, when Rob dropped it off, she felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. Undoubtedly, it didn't mean what she had thought it did. Why hadn't that fucker been more clear with his message? This is what happens when you send an assassin on a messenger's job, she thought.

Her hands trembled. She wondered if she'd ever be done paying. She unfolded the inner, older letter.

* * *

Dear Carrie,

If you're reading this, then I didn't make it back from this mission. I don't know how else to say this to you, but I made a mistake. I've had so many chances to go a different way. And in my whole fucked-up life, I never regretted anything more than leaving on the mission before I got to talk to you again.

I should have waited. Or, I should have come to Missouri. Anything but leave the way I did.

I fucked it up. It's too late now, but I want to say I'm sorry. And I want you to know how much I care.

-Quinn

* * *

Carrie heaved a sigh, and sniffled. Wrapped around this treatise was another note.

* * *

Carrie,

I know "the letter" only usually comes after someone passes. But I somehow survived this mission, and I asked Rob to deliver these to you. What I want is to go back in time, but no one can do that. So instead, I want to try to fix my mistake.

I'm in a military hospital in Germany. I lost enough blood that they can't transport me yet. And there is fear that I might have contracted a contagious illness, because of where I was. So for the moment, I can't be reached. But in about three weeks' time, I should be back in the US.

I think I'll be sent to Walter Reed. Dar Adal will know when, and where. He'll tell you, if you ask. I told him he had to. If you read my earlier letter (enclosed) you will see what I was feeling back when I left.

I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. It's probably too much to hope for. But maybe we can start over. Even if it means we are only friends, I want to see you again. Please come.

-PQ

* * *

Carrie buried her face in her hands. She had no idea if Quinn was dead, or alive. It was as if the lights had gone out, all over the world.


	10. Überwachung

March 2017

_Goethestrasse_ , Berlin, Germany

* * *

It had been easy to find her. Quinn knew how, of course, it was his line of work. And she wasn't exactly in hiding. Her name, email, so many other things were easily located, since she was now a private citizen.

The apartment across the street from Carrie's, well, that had been a little harder to get. There had been a 3 month lease, and the manager was holding it for someone else. But Quinn had literally years of danger pay that he hadn't had the heart to spend. Money solved that problem in a hurry.

He used one of his many aliases, and brought in a bunch of surveillance equipment in suitcases. He'd worn a pork-pie hat, kept his head down, and abandoned the sling. His arm was still sore, but he'd felt worse. He didn't want to be spotted, and hadn't caught sight of her yet, not even from a distance. But through his research, Quinn knew Carrie resided in apartment 4A. Fourth-floor walkup. He told himself that he only wanted to watch. That he wouldn't violate her privacy… too much. The easy view of her bed through the window curtains made him shudder, though, and the word "violate" rang through his head again, unbidden. He shook his head. If she appeared happy, he should not disturb her and disrupt her life. At least, that's what he told himself right now.

Underneath this tacit assumption, he felt a deeper current of desire – more than to just see her. He wanted to … he didn't know what. Just talk to her, maybe, he told himself. To clear the air, once and for all. Maybe for the last time.

He unpacked his belongings – so few, such sparse furnishings. But it would be comfortable enough for the month he would stay. He was used to worse. He showered, took a nap. Berlin seemed deathly quiet after the war zones he'd been living in. When he awoke, he got down to business.

Carrie's apartment was one floor down, and right across the street. It was a quiet, two way residential lane with lovely trees. But her windows gave him almost a perfect view into her balcony, her bedroom beyond – and the other window, which looked into the small living area.

He set up his long-range scope, and for the first time in many years, laid cross-hairs on someone he didn't intend to gather intel on, and later kill. Just to watch.

The tip of the scope was poked between the curtains, but he was confident it wasn't visible from her place. He felt a bit more at peace already, just knowing that during this month of quiet, he would probably get to see her. Even the sight of her would heal him. A window into her life, and up close, if he was careful. That is, once he'd tracked and documented her regular movements, and figured out how to tail her. He pictured himself, sipping coffee in a cafe, two tables away from Carrie, with his back turned. He smiled. Maybe it was madness, but this is how he wanted to spend his vacation. Anyway, it was nobody's fucking business but his own.

His stealthy observation paid off quickly. Late in the afternoon of the same day, he saw Carrie coming down the street. She had a warm knitted beret on, and an ankle-length wool coat. Brown leather boots. Her hair was the slightest bit shorter than he remembered. But she looked the same. Handbag slung over her shoulder, she hurried to the door of the building, and let herself in. His heart had been leaping like a gazelle in his chest ever since she came into view.

He watched the upstairs window, where he knew she'd enter the flat. A portly woman with short, curly brown hair walked into the field of view, and set a red-haired toddler down on the carpet, as Carrie unlocked the door, and came in. The child wobbled towards her. He could see Carrie's face very well in this view, through the powerful scope. Golden hair, as she whipped the hat off in the warmth. Beautiful, kissable white skin. She smiled at Franny, and he could see her mouth the words, "Hi, sweetie." His heart faltered, and his right hand clamped down on the scope. His left hand gripped his knee with menacing tightness.

As if she could hear him, he replied.

"Hi, Carrie." Softly, in the near darkness, to no one.


	11. Entschlossenheit

March 2017

_Goethestrasse_ , Berlin, Germany

* * *

Carrie walked with her head down, the more swiftly to get home in the deepening twilight. It had been a cool day, overcast, and it was getting colder, the damp breeze seeming to penetrate the weave of her heavy wool coat. She shivered. Carrie hadn't made a habit of working after business hours, so coming home at 6:30 PM felt awfully late to her.

She couldn't wait to see Franny, but wasn't looking forward to the rest of the week – especially Friday night. Since she had found Quinn's letters, she felt something undeniable, something like a reawakening of an independent part of her that had gone dormant for the last year or so. It was not so much that she really ever thought, or even hoped, that she'd see Quinn again – he still felt lost to her, and her life was so different now. Even so, Quinn's words had ignited some quiescent emotion and rekindled her heart, putting her relationship with Markus, such as it was, in better perspective than ever before.

Whatever else Quinn might have been or done, and wherever he might be now, he had tried to be honest with her. Even when he "knew her shit," as they put it, he was fond of her. Looking back on that – it was hard to take. She had decided that legacy of this friendship – latent love-affair, really – must be real honesty with herself, and others in her life, especially around important issues that affected them deeply. And that required that she speak honestly to Markus. For the first time since she'd left the US, she felt strong and purposeful. She had never been a person to feel fear at these kinds of gut-wrenching conversations. If she had been afraid of confrontation, she never would have become an Agent to start with. For better or worse, she needed to air these feelings, because for Carrie, there was no more point in "just getting by." Her lack of enthusiasm for Markus Wagner had been with her for a long time, and she felt she couldn't put it off anymore.

Markus had never been the demanding type, not in the beginning anyway. He'd brought flowers, done some cooking, been thoughtful and pretty reasonable. But as his interest grew, hers faded away to some degree. And every time he'd try to bring up a subject that required commitment, she had shied away from it. She liked her flat, she said. She liked her independence. He thought that she was commitment-phobic, Carrie thought. But the better she felt about herself, her job, her condition, and life with her daughter, the less she felt necessary to "settle" for someone she wasn't really that attracted to, or felt any kind of powerful kinship with. Her withdrawal had made him more edgy, and inclined to argue and pry. She was done with it.

It was possible to be alone without being lonely, she thought. Being alone no longer seemed like the worst thing she could think of. She had been on her own before, in worse situations than this. She would manage.

She pushed the door to the apartment building open, and trotted up the stairs. There, Anna was reading a book to Franny. She stood when Carrie entered, and set Franny on her feet. Franny walked steadily to Carrie, with her arms open.

"Mama!" she declared, her tiny front teeth revealed in her wide smile.

"Hi, Sweetie," Carrie said, and caught the child in her embrace.

"Another  _gut_  day, and she loves to read," Anna said. "In  _Deutche_  and in English." Carrie made grateful eye contact with Anna.

"I'm glad you're here with her. I need to ask a favor,  _an diesem Freitag_."

Anna smiled. " _Was_?" she asked.

"I need to go out with Markus. Alone," she said.

"Zo, you need  _einhüten_ , babysitting," said Anna. "I would go home, and bring Briggite with me. Is this ok?"

"Sure," said Carrie, taking in Anna's wistful smile a little sadly. She thought it was to be a romantic date. Well, that's what anybody might think. But it wasn't going to be, Carrie thought.

They finalized the arrangements, and Anna left for home. Carrie took off her boots, sighing with relief, and padded into the kitchen to see what was cooking on the stove. Broiled chicken, that was what smelled so good. She had finally gotten Anna to cook a few lighter items. After Carrie had suggested certain recipes might be healthier, Anna had finally gotten the message.

Franny played on the floor with her "little people," her collection of wooden people and animals from Haba, another gift from Bill and Maggie. She talked excitedly to them, while Carrie tossed a salad and steamed some peas. Franny was dressed in a practical outfit for a busy young child, dark green leggings and a yellow long-sleeved t-shirt with a rainbow ironed on. Carrie had finally convinced Anna to dress Franny in practical, machine-washable clothes that weren't so pink and frilly. It was hard enough to be a girl, Carrie thought, without getting the idea that you were supposed to be clean and pretty, even as a toddler. For her part, Franny showed no interest in or preference for twirly skirts or princess gear. She was just as happy to be digging in the sand or going down a slide, or picking bugs out of the grass. Tough and smart, like her Dad. And like me, I hope, Carrie thought wistfully.

For fun that night, mother and daughter had a "picnic," eating cross-legged on the living room floor, and playing with the toy people all the while. During the meal, Carrie had the strangest sensation of being watched. It was so strong that she'd gone to the window, then the balcony, and looked out. There were drapes to draw in the bedroom, but only sheers in the living room. She didn't bother. Where this perception was coming from, she couldn't say. But when she went to undress Franny, and start to bathe off her buttery face and fingers, she closed all the curtains well.

After a story, toothbrushing, pajamas, a drink of water, another story, and another drink of water, Franny finally gave it up and fell asleep on her belly with her butt in the air. Carrie sighed with relief and headed into her bedroom, turning off all the lights as she went. She had lost what she now felt was a paranoid impulse, and reopened her bedroom curtains. She wasn't an operative any more, she reminded herself, looking out at the night, the trees, the dark apartments opposite. She was just a private citizen. With her own boatload of self-made problems, she reflected forlornly. She opened the balcony door the slightest bit, to catch a fresh breeze. Laying down on the bed, she grabbed her iPhone, and texted Markus.

"I'm going to bed early," she said.

"Okay, sleep well :-)" came back a few minutes later. She sighed, and threw the phone on the bedside table.

Carrie stripped in the dark, and when she was washed up, she changed into her favorite comfortable pajamas. A v-neck gray t-shirt and soft dark gray pants, she'd had them for years, even trucked them to Kabul and Islamabad. Then, she sat back down on the bed, and turned on a very low light. She lay at the edge of the bed near the window, her head resting on her hand. She opened the bedside table, and pulled out Quinn's letters. By now, she had memorized them both, but pressing the pages to her heart made her feel closer to him. She turned the lamp to the lowest setting, only 10 watts, barely enough to see by. Closing her eyes, she tried to think of more cheerful thoughts, but was followed into dreams only by a pang of remorse. Something had to give.

* * *

Twilight had turned to complete darkness, and Carrie had turned on a very low light in her bedroom. Across the street, Quinn stood down with the the standard equipment, and bending down, retrieved the night-vision scope. He was pretty sure that he could see the lined paper pressed to Carrie's chest. It had a trifold, as if it had been fit into a business-sized envelope.

His carotid pulse grew so powerful that he could almost feel it moving his shirt collar. He felt anticipation and elation, so much so that he was almost impelled to run out the door, cross the street, and reveal himself at once.

But good things took time. He had waited more than 2 years, and he could get a few more night's sleep while getting the lay of the land. What if there was another man? What did he really know about her life? If she was really happy, he needed to back off. With the resolution of the scope, that piece of paper could be a grocery list, he admonished himself. Still, people don't usually fall asleep clutching a grocery list to their breast. He sighed.

The compulsion to watch her through the night-vision goggles was potent, and Quinn sat almost without moving until nearly midnight, when Carrie stirred, and reached up to turn out the light. She laid the papers on the bedside table, but he could only see the shadowy outline in the green light of the night-vision scope. She crawled under the covers in the darkness. After she settled, Quinn turned in himself, aligning his long body on the bare bed, fiercely entreating his mind for dreams that complemented the vision he'd indulged in all evening. A mysterious smile crossed his face as he slipped into unconsciousness.


	12. Schluß machen

March 2017

Berlin, Germany

* * *

When Carrie entered the restaurant, Markus saw her, and stood immediately. He gave her a hug and a kiss, and then held the chair as she sat down.

"I'm sorry I'm running late," she said, "But it took some time to get Franny settled at the house. And I forgot her sippy cup. It's been a mad rush."

"So, Franny is at Anna's?"

"Yes," Carrie said, "Briggitte wanted to help babysit, and Anna didn't want her out too late. Franny has done overnights there before, so it was no big deal."

" _Ja_ , Anna and Jens are like family," Markus said. "Shall we order?"

"I don't know, everything looks good," Carrie said, examining the menu. In reality, nothing looked good, and she had no appetite at all. But she tried to keep her cool.

It was Friday night, date night. Markus had insisted on a famous restaurant, in the more touristy part of town, a place that served traditional German food, called Lutter and Wegner. The Gendarmenmarkt district was busy with pedestrians, shoppers and gawpers. The couple didn't usually go this far just to eat out, since their regular restaurants could all be reached on foot. While not renowned for its cuisine, Berlin's thriving economy supported quite a number of good cafes, and for the most part, Markus and Carrie were content with the food in their neighborhood. Carrie had been surprised that he suggested this place.

"Are you forgoing liquor tonight? I don't see your usual glass of König," she noted.

"No pilsner tonight. I ordered something special," Markus said. The waiter brought a bottle of champagne and two flutes, and proceeded to open it. Carrie's nerves, already worn to a frazzle with the knowledge of what she intended to discuss, worked themselves up to a razor edge.

"I'm not really in a champagne mood," Carrie said.

"Oh, well, then. Just go through the motions," Markus suggested with good humor.

 _That's what I've been doing for 18 months,_  she thought.

After a moment, Carrie clinked glasses with Markus, and gave a reluctant smile. " _Pros't_ ," he insisted. " _Pros't_ ," Carrie replied politely. "Listen, Markus..."

He lifted a finger, "Tut-tut, not yet, love. Let's order. Then, I get to go first. How was your day?"

Carrie sighed. It was as if Markus knew what she had come here to say, and was going to do anything he could to delay or stop it. Or perhaps, he simply wanted to control things. The blanc de noir made her nervous, too.

They placed their orders, and made small talk, sipping the champagne and enjoying the gorgeous view of the _Berliner Dom_ , which Carrie had still not been inside of.

"We should go. This weekend, perhaps?" Markus suggested.

"I don't know what my weekend looks like yet," Carrie said. "And I'm really not into cathedrals."

Markus looked up at her over his  _schnitzel_ , but didn't comment.

Later, as the waiter removed the plates, Markus noted, "Carrie, you barely touched your dinner. What's wrong?"

"Markus, there's something we need to talk about," Carrie said heavily.

"Can I go first," Markus said, "Because I have something to ask you. And give you."

 _Oh shit_. She tried to head him off. "Listen, Markus, we can't have this conversation now, because…"

Markus reached across the table and grabbed her hand. "I hope this will cheer you up," he said, and into her hand, he placed a soft black velvet box.

"Oh, Markus. Oh, my God." She opened it to reveal a one carat brilliant cut diamond, bezel set in white gold.

"Do you like it? I wanted it to be a surprise, but if you don't like it, we can exchange it," he said.

"Well…." Carrie said. She knew if she said she liked it, he'd take that as a "yes".

"Listen," Markus started, using his best pep-talk voice. "We have been together for a while. I love Franny, you know that. And I love  _you_. And, Carrie," he said, his voice betraying a hint of anxiety. " _I want another baby._ "

Carrie snapped the box shut, and set it on the table before her.

"Don't answer now," he said. "You can think about it."

She sat quietly, looking at the stemware, trying to formulate just the right words, the ones that wouldn't be too hurtful, but which would also make her feelings clear.

"We don't even have to live here," he said, a further strain evident in his voice. "We can move to Stuttgart."

Stuttgart, for pity's sake. To be closer to Markus's parents. To his  _mother_. It would make her insane.

"Or D.C., even. Near your sister. I could take the USMLE again. Won't you consider it?" At this point, he sounded desperate.

She took a deep breath.  _Here goes_. "I know you love Franny. And me. But I don't feel the same. I'm sorry."

The hurt look in his eyes made it difficult for her to look back at him. She slid the ring box back across the table, feeling hurt herself. What had she been thinking, all this time? What was she thinking now? He was stable, and kind. He just wanted a commitment. But no. He wasn't right for her. She had to be true to herself. Anything else would mean a lifetime of "settling" and playacting. She took his hand, by way of apology.

"I am really, really sorry that I hurt you. But I can't."

Markus looked at their interlinked fingers. "I think I already knew the answer," he said dejectedly. He let go, then reached behind his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose, something she knew he did when he was getting misty. "Just tell me one thing."

"What?"

His eyes turned up to her, plaintive as a kicked puppy. "Is there someone else?"

Carrie paused a moment – just a moment – and then answered.

"No."

The waiter floated up to the table, and intoned cheerfully, "Did we save room for dessert?"

Markus put the ring box back in his jacket pocket. He answered gloomily, without looking up.

" _Die Rechnung, bitte._ "

* * *

Sitting at the bar, Quinn had been able to align the portable listening device so that the focus was on Carrie's table. With the earpiece in, hidden under the hair of the wig he'd assumed as a disguise, he was able to hear pretty much everything said at the table, except for when he had to speak to the bartender. He'd used a few words of rudimentary German to order food and drink, and dawdled over it while he listened, keeping his head down in the knitted cap.

Helplessly concerned with where she was going out on a Friday night, he had tailed her first to Anna's house, where he saw her go inside, and emerge twenty minutes later without Franny. Going out, maybe to Girl's night, maybe on a date, he thought, feeling a bit unsettled. Then, he followed her to the Gendarmenmarkt, where he'd been unsurprised and unhappy to see her meet with a middle-aged blonde man in glasses, and embrace him affectionately. Well, that's it for you, Quinn, he thought. You've been replaced. He had a sick feeling in his stomach, but felt unable to do other than stay and listen, all the same.

He'd told himself he was in Berlin to check on Carrie. To make sure she was ok. And to get some rest, before signing on for another mission. But having seen her two nights before, and observing her behavior around some folded letter-sized paper from her desk, he couldn't help but increase his surveillance. He had gone out during the workday, walked about the town, and obtained some basic food and drink, along with a fifth of good whiskey – one of his favorites, Tullamore Dew. He picked up a cheap burner phone, in case he wanted to call someone. And then he'd passed a clothing shop, so he'd gone in and bought a few items. On a bohemian street a few U-Bahn stops from Carrie's flat, he'd seen a costume shop, the windows filled with hats, canes, and wigs. He'd gone inside and helped himself to a few elements of disguise. Just in case, he thought.

There had been no break in his lonely holiday, though, and when a good looking young woman had approached him as he ate a pub lunch on Friday at noon, he had rebuffed her.

"  _Ich habe eine Freundin_ ," he'd snapped.

The listening device, well, he'd already had that. He brought it along, in case it was useful. And he was cagey as hell as he tailed Carrie. If she thought she was being followed, she'd assume he was a criminal, no doubt, a pickpocket or purse-snatcher or mugger, and ditch him in an instant. She could do it. He was lucky, though, she seemed preoccupied and didn't have her usual level of guard raised. Another reason he was glad to be watching over her tonight. Berlin was a safe city, but still. Things could happen. So here he was on a barstool, imitating some Euroflash dude on vacation, with longer hair and a hipster hat. If he hadn't been so serious about his mission, he'd have been amused.

The conversation shocked him. He'd had no idea she was into something this serious. When the man had slid a ring box across the table towards he, he'd almost choked on his  _kartoffelsalad_. But Carrie hadn't accepted. She hadn't even said, "I'll think about it," which surprised him. And then, wonder of wonders, she broke it off. Told the guy she didn't care for him. He had to watch as she dried her eyes, and the crestfallen fellow had paid the bill. The man left first – left her there alone, with an abrupt word that he missed, because of some background noise. Whatever he said upset Carrie, though, because she hung her head further.

What an ass. He had a protective urge to grab the guy by the scruff of his neck, twist his arm behind his back, and make him apologize. But no, he thought, this couldn't be another case of using a napkin dispenser to beat some diner jerks unconscious. Carrie couldn't bail him out. Hell, she didn't even know he was here. And, she would probably punch me in the eye if she knew I was listening in, he speculated. He contained himself, damping down the impulse with a promise to himself – before he left Berlin, he  _would_  talk to her. Just talk to her.

As Carrie headed out into the street, he put some Euros next to his bill and quickly left the restaurant by a side door. She walked into the plaza in front of the  _Konzerthaus_ , her head down and seeming to sniffle. Quinn shadowed her silently as she walked between the majestic buildings.

It was a straight shot West on the U12 line to get back to Carrie's apartment – and his crib across the street. He got on the same train but into a different car than she did, with his face buried in a copy of  _Berliner Zeitung_. But she hadn't looked around much at the station. She kept dabbing at her eyes.

Together, yet apart, they headed back to  _Goethestrasse_ , Carrie, the melancholy lead, and Quinn, unseen, the shadow player, sticking to her tail like a stalker.

" _Like" a stalker_ , he thought.  _Ha. I_ _ **am**_ _one_. But his lips stretched into a tight smile at the thought.

* * *

Carrie arrived back home. She called Anna to see how Franny was doing. It was 9:00 PM, but Briggitte was still playing with Franny like she was a dress-up doll. She could hear them both giggling in the background.

"Bedtime soon,  _ja_ ," said Anna, "For both of them."

Carrie listened to Anna's aghast silence as she described what happened that night, as briefly as she could.

"We broke up," she said. "It hurts to talk about it. I need to turn in, I'll come get Franny tomorrow, after breakfast. OK?' Carrie blew her nose audibly.

Anna sighed. "I'm so sorry, Miss Carrie. He was a  _gut_  man."

"Yeah," said Carrie. "I guess it wasn't meant to be." They said their goodbyes.

Carrie hung up, and started to change clothes. Suddenly she missed Franny terribly. What an awful idea, being alone on a night like this. In the process of hanging up her dress, she broke down into noisy sobs. Might as well let it all out. And call Johanna in the morning, she thought, letting the tears take her.

Her iPhone rang. She wiped her eyes and answered it.

"It's me, Markus. I just wanted to know if you got home alright. I'm sorry about what I said, as I left the restaurant."

"It's upsetting. It's ok. Forget it."

"I hope we can be friends," he tried.

"I don't know, Markus. I can't talk just now. OK?"

" _Ja_ , okay. You call me, Carrie," he said. She swiped the call closed.

She pulled on comfortable jeans and a long-sleeved workout shirt, and went to the TV. Maybe there would be something to distract herself with, there on the box, maybe something from  _Das Erste_  or  _RBB_. She wondered if she had any Ambien left in the bathroom cabinet. Maybe. She flipped channels, sitting in the blue glow, and still giving in to periodic bouts of crying. In some ways, she felt better – relieved – because she had ended something that no longer felt right. But at the same time, it was sad. She couldn't help but feel some misery around the ending.

Her phone buzzed again, and as her eyes were a blear of tears, she simply swiped it open and held it to her ear as she pulled another tissue.

"I told you, I can't talk just now," she said, irritably, assuming it was Markus again.

But it wasn't. A familiar, gravelly and long-unheard voice came over the line.

"Carrie. It's Quinn. Please, don't hang up."


	13. Wiedervereinigung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the long German title word - I've been told (by the real-life Jens) that it means "reunion."
> 
> Enjoy and I hope everyone is losing as much sleep over this fic, as I am.

Carrie's voice came back, at first strident, and full of alarm, and then a moment later, quiet and cool.

"Quinn?" she nearly shouted. He could hear the tears in her voice, and it broke his heart. He'd been watching her cry for an hour, and couldn't take it anymore. He decided that if he was going to talk with her, tonight should be the night. If that was poor judgment, then judgment be damned.

"Quinn," she said again, seeming calmer. He saw her head fall back onto the couch cushions, where she had been half-reclining, lounging while she cried and changed channels.

"Where are you. D.C.? Damascus?" A laugh, combined with a sob, emitted from her, which he both heard and saw, as her hand came up and crossed her mouth. She sat up all the way, and took her hand away again, and then put it on her forehead, fell back again.

"I'm in Berlin. I'm in town," he said, in a way he hoped was soothing. "I found out you were here. So I thought I'd take some leave." He was afraid to suggest anything yet, just wanted to make contact. Take the temperature of the situation. His stomach was fluttery and nervous. Everything about this was off the plate from what he usually experienced in his life. He was being careful with a woman's feelings, and it had been two and a half years since he did that. He found that he relished the feeling.

"Wow," she said, her laugh seeming a little more genuine this time. "Quinn. I've been wondering about you," she said.

He closed his eyes, remembering that the last time he'd talked to her, he'd said more or less the same thing. Well, the time had come to have that talk, the one they should have had after she got back from Missouri. At least, he hoped it'd go that way. Maybe she'd be done with him, and close the door forever. Who knew? But he thought he needed to find out, since that last mission. It had been a near-death experience like none other. There might not be another chance.

"Yeah," he said. "Do you want to meet up? I'm available, for the next, oh, five days," he said, giving it a short window, to make it feel urgent. "Tomorrow, maybe? I know it's late," he said. "Or, even, tonight," he suggested hopefully.

He saw Carrie's hand rub back and forth across her forehead. She sat up, put her feet on the floor, and leaned forward, with her elbows on her knees.

"Quinn," she started. "Yeah. I'd like that. Tonight would be good."

He saw her get up, and then she disappeared from the living room. The TV snapped off and the room plunged into darkness. The bedroom light came on, flooding his night-vision scope and nearly blinding him. He took it down, and moved to the regular, day scope.

"I'm going to come out, and meet you, Quinn," she said, and he saw her yanking drawers open. Taking off the jeans, nearly in his field of view, but not quite, and showing a heart-rending expanse of slender white leg, but just for a moment. Then, she spoke again, a bit out of breath.

"Yeah. Is tonight really good?"

Quinn had put the night scope down, zeroed in through the day scope at the bedroom, lit with frugal, compact fluorescent bulbs. The light had a purplish cast, and Carrie's skin showed up white in his deprived, miserable retinas, a veritable seraph, struggling into dark socks, dark jeans, and black boots.

She tore off the workout shirt, and dug through her closet. Peter saw her from the side, her black bra in relief against the moving clothing rack, as she selected a long black silk shirt, tore it off the hanger, and pulled it over her shoulders, and buttoned it up over her flat belly. He felt a dark flame of desire rise up in his loins.

Quinn suddenly realized that his staring was more voyeurism than anything else, and put the scope down. He had her on the phone, so why did he need to do this? He was acting deranged. Maybe he was.

"Yeah, tonight's good," he said. "I don't have anywhere to be. Where do you want to meet?"

"Um, OK. Do you know the Newton Bar? It's actually near my place. On Charlottenstraße, just east of the big Zoo, Tiergarten."

Quinn gripped his knee. This was really going to happen. He used his G-phone, an iPhone 7, to start to look up the place, while he used the cheap burner to talk to Carrie.

"No, but I can use my phone and find it. What time?"

"How about, in one hour? 10:30," she suggested. He could imagine her in the bathroom, brushing her hair, pressing a powder puff to her cheeks. Maybe putting perfume in the hollows of her throat. He shuddered.

"Yeah, that's fine," he said. Then he realized the artifice required that he ask something. "But what about Franny? Can she be alone?"

"She's at a friend's. I'll see you in an hour, Quinn. Newton Bar. And Quinn?"

"Yeah," he said, roughly. He was almost overcome with emotion. She wanted to see him, she was coming. He could hardly wait.

"Don't stand me up. I've had a rough week," Carrie said a little laugh behind her voice.

"I won't," he grated. "See you soon."


	14. Kollision

Berlin. Night. Early Spring.

Carrie walked quickly through the dark, her head down, and a wry smile on her face. She couldn't wipe it off. She had been buoyed up by Quinn's call, both on a superficial level – it was something to think about, other than wallow in misery over Markus – and on a deeper level. Since her discovery of Quinn's letters, she'd been hoping beyond hope to see him, just one more time. To have it happen on the eve of a breakup, well, that was like surviving a lightning bolt. It liberated her feelings and her behaviors. A trusted friend even had Franny this night, so she could… follow her feelings. It was like getting high. She couldn't wait to see him.

She knew where Newton Bar was, and came into the neighborhood from a side street, hoping to catch Quinn unawares and observe him for a moment. It had been ages since she'd tried to exercise spycraft, as being a "regular citizen" had put her into a zone where those skills weren't needed. But she hoped to have a look at him before he saw her, just for her own gratification. She came around the corner of Mohrenstrasse, and looked left and right. If she approached slowly, she ought to be able to see anyone sitting at the outdoor tables before he realized it. She guessed he would be there, trying to do the same – catch a glimpse of her before she noticed. She breathed in deeply, and blew it out again, watching as her breath vaporized and faded into a white cloud in the air. She felt free, suddenly, and realized that it had been a long time since she had. Free of her child, who she adored- and free of encumbrance, which her old relationship represented. And for the moment, free of fear.

Enough, already, she thought. I've been in a cage for a year. Quinn would never have been like that. He would never have stood for that. Fuck it, I made the right decision, I know it. She walked slowly down the block, and after a moment, spotted Quinn at one of the outdoor tables. She stopped, and just observed. Her eyes widened, then filled, at the sight of him.

Quinn. He was sitting at an outdoor table, sipping a dark beer. It looked like a stout. Markus was always so insistent that anything darker than a pale ale "destroyed the palate." Carrie had remonstrated with him that the darker beers had more character, and Markus had said, "Pilsners have enough character for me." It figured.

Quinn still had short, ash-brown, mildly disordered hair, just like she remembered, and he leaned back in the chair, as if unconcerned about who would come, or what they would say. His cheekbones looked a bit more hollow, and there appeared to be a few silver hairs mixed in with the brown. Well, yeah, she thought to herself. He's 39 now, or maybe even 40. She had covered a few grays herself the last time she'd been to the stylist. Time marched on. She swallowed around a lump that stuck in her throat.

She felt compelled to get closer to him, and started to walk faster. Her boot heels clicked on the pavement and she walked rapidly towards this place, a popular tavern just the other side of the square from where she saw Markus, earlier tonight. The Newton Bar was populated by locals and tourists alike and seemed to always be thronged by a huge body of humans, desirous of interacting. Carrie walked ahead, keeping Quinn in her sights. He raised his head from the creamy top of his stout, and made eye contact. He stood, and in a vulnerable gesture that tore at her, held his arms open.

* * *

He looked up. He wasn't dreaming anymore. She had come. It was all he could do not to leap to his feet and grab her around the shoulders, press her to him and kiss her lips. As it was, he stood and and solemnly waited. Ecstatic as he felt, he didn't smile. But his eyes were bright. Carrie walked into his range of close vision, her cheeks rosy, her hair shiny, her lips kissable. She hadn't changed a bit, not in his eyes. He was nearly mad to touch her, but he had to remind himself that they really never had a relationship. She was just an old work colleague, finding him and meeting up after the fact. He tried to remember that.

Carrie walked straight to him and put her arms around him. She snuggled into him, the top of her head buried right under his chin. He had forgotten how tiny she was. She clutched at him, and he pulled her close.

"Quinn. Oh, Quinn. I'm so glad to see you," she said. She didn't move for a moment, and he pressed her tighter, his nose in the hair on the top of her head. She was holding him. She fit right under his chin, like a puzzle piece. The cloak of outdoor clothes and winter garments didn't exist for a moment. He was so overcome as he embraced her that he couldn't even say her name.

"I missed you too," he said, finally. He waited until she wiggled, signaling she wanted release. Then, he stepped back, and they sat down. He signaled the barmaid with a single finger.

"What he's having," Carrie said to the woman. Quinn and Carrie looked at each other, and neither said a word for a long moment.

"Long time," Quinn ventured.

"Yeah, a long time. Have you been to Berlin before?"

"Oh, um," Quinn said, thinking of Astrid, feeling a tad embarrassed. "Yeah, a few times."

"Mmm," Carrie said. "So you decided to do the tourist thing?" she asked, trying to be playful. But Quinn saw the red rims of her eyelids, noted their slightly swollen appearance, despite her careful makeup.

"I guess," he said. "Mostly, I just thought I'd come and see how you were doing," he admitted.

"It's cold out here," Carrie observed, shivering, and rubbing her arms. The barmaid brought her stout, thankfully served close to room temperature, the way the Brits liked it. Quinn paid for it. "Do you want to go inside?" she asked.

"I went inside before," Quinn said. "It's so loud in there. I want to hear what you say," he said. His eyes hadn't left her.

"We'll drink up, then go to another bar," she suggested. They clinked glasses.

"Cheers," Quinn toasted.

"Cheers," Carrie replied, relieved to not be spouting a German toast for once. She recalled with crystal clarity the last time she'd had a drink with Quinn. It had been at Maggie's house, after her father's funeral. It felt like forever. She sipped her beer, and felt in her gut how hard it had been for her to lose Quinn, not to see him for all that time. She remembered the kiss, and looked back up over her drink, which she had now swallowed at least a third of. Quinn didn't tell her to slow down – Markus would have.

Fuck him, she thought. She reached across the table as the beer started to hit her, and grabbed Quinn's hand.

"Quinn," she said. "Where have you been? Tell me everything."

* * *

Tell me everything, she said. Well, that he couldn't do. There was so much that was classified, almost all of it, really. And, she was out of the Agency. Discussing state secrets with civilians was a big no-no, something acceptable only after a very long statute of limitations - the earliest he could talk about some of these things was 75 years after the event. He could reveal generalities, only. And he didn't want to think about that shit anyway. He started out slow, hoping she'd figure it out.

"Well, the Middle East, mostly," he said, running a finger around the top of his glass. "Once or twice to Eastern Ukraine."

"Uh-huh," Carrie said, taking it in. Her eyes were a trifle bloodshot, which only made them more blue. He cleared his throat.

"Brussels, a couple of hamlets in Uzbekistan. About four months in Syria. Way back, you know."

"I do know. Quinn," she said, her voice pleading. "You know, I…" she gave a short laugh. "I didn't read your letters, when your guy delivered them. I only read them last month. Your guy, he didn't get the message right, I don't think," she said. Her eyes were dark with regret when she looked back up at him.

Quinn looked down, shook his head. "I should have called. When I got back to the US, I was out of quarantine. I just thought…" his voice tapered off in volume, as he admitted. "I thought you didn't want to see me."

"Quinn," she said, and sighed quickly and heavily. "Nothing could have been further from the truth."

They eyed each other across the small table, and eventually, smiled.

* * *

They made lighter conversation, about Franny, about the weather, about the beautiful Dom that was lit so brightly across the plaza.

"All of this was leveled during the war, almost all of it, at any rate," Carrie said. "But they rebuilt it from the ashes," she said.

"Like a phoenix," Quinn offered. Her hair shone golden in the city light. He couldn't take his eyes off her.

"Yeah. Sometimes, something good  _can_  come out of the decisions we make. Even if it takes a while to rebuild," she said.

"Yeah," Quinn said briefly. "It can."

They finished their beers, and stood up. Carrie took Quinn's arm as they strolled down Charlottestrasse. She'd been with him for 45 minutes, and already it felt more natural to be together than it did with Markus for the last 6 months.

Time to forget about Markus, she told herself.

Quinn followed her lead, as she suggested a smaller, quieter bar closer to her own place. He opened the door for her, and the two found a comfortable booth in a corner. He ordered them a couple of drinks, vodka tonic this time – and they spent another hour reminiscing about their shared past. Talking about Saul, and about Pakistan. About Max and Virgil and how they were probably doing – "Well, last I heard," Carrie said. They spend a moment remembering Fara, and Carrie had to wipe her eyes. Quinn grabbed her hand when she sniffled, and from that point on, he didn't let go. She pulled her wrist loose at one point to use a tissue, but put her hand right back in his immediately after.

They talked a while longer of less consequential things, and then, finishing their drinks, got up and left the small pub. It was after midnight, and although a huge city like Berlin is always hopping, Carrie's neighborhood was quieting down. They heard the odd police siren, and were passed by a couple of drunken students, who were laughing and babbling about Berliner SV. Carrie hung on Quinn's arm, as she led the way down the street. She yawned, in spite of herself.

"Come on," Quinn said kindly. "I'll walk you all the way home."

They didn't hurry, but it wasn't far. Soon arriving back at the front of Carrie's building, they stopped at the front door to her place.

She let go, and turned to face him. "Well, this is it," she said.

"Well." It was all he could come up with. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

"I had fun," she offered.

"Me too," Quinn said. He wished he had a way with words! But he couldn't think of anything else.

"I'm not really ready to sleep," she said, shaking her head. "I didn't mention it, but it's been a hell of a day."

"Well, we could go to my place. Have a nightcap," he said. He felt brave, was filled with the sight and sound of her, the pleasure of her company. He hoped he wasn't making a mistake. He didn't want to let go.

"I can't believe I never asked," she said. "Where are you staying?"

"In the neighborhood," Quinn said. A massive understatement if there ever was one.

"I see," she said. He took her wrist and led her across the quiet residential street.

She followed after, looking at him curiously. When he walked up to the front door of the apartment building, he opened it and motioned her inside.

"After you," Quinn said.

"You're kidding," Carrie said, astounded. But then, what did she expect?

"I'm not kidding. Follow me," he said.

Quinn led the way up the stairs to the fifth floor walkup, and unlocked the door to the flat. Pushing it up open, he stepped aside as Carrie entered, looking around with a quizzical expression on her face. She walked immediately to the windows, and looked over at her own place, where the lights were off.

She said nothing for a long moment. Behind her, she heard Quinn shut and lock the door. Then she heard a click as Quinn turned on a lamp, casting a yellow glow across the worn Persian carpet.

"Can I get you a whiskey?" he said. She turned to face him in the gloomy living room, glancing about at the sparse furniture, the single lamp, the bedroom with only a dresser and a single bed, a single pillow and rumpled sheet upon it. She took two steps closer to him, and frowned.

"How long have you been staying here, Quinn?" Carrie asked, in a tone of voice that suggested she was irritated and that she'd tolerate no bullshit.

"Um," he said, deciding on honesty. He should have known that she'd snap to this situation immediately. "Since Wednesday."

"Really," Carrie said, frowning and nodding. Dropping her handbag, she stalked into the bedroom and flipped on the ceiling light. Quinn followed her, concerned, the bottle of whiskey still in his hand. Spotting Quinn's duffel on the floor, into which he'd hastily stuffed his surveillance scopes and other equipment, she walked to it and stooped. Before Quinn could say anything or stop her, she yanked it out, unzipped it, started poking through it.

"Quinn!" Carrie said, angrily, still squatting by the bag and digging, lenses and scopes in her hands. "What the fuck? Have you been  _spying_  on me?"

He didn't know what to say. He looked at the floor, and set the whiskey bottle down on a nearby table. "I'm sorry," was all he could think of. "I wanted to know if you were ok," he admitted. His cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment. He felt like a flaming asshole, and looked at his shoes.

Carrie stood, steaming mad. She pushed past him and back out into the living room. "Are you fucking kidding me? All this time, all this separation, so much lost. And the first thing you can think to do is  _violate my privacy_? Quinn, you fucking asshole!" She took off her overcoat, and threw it on the floor in a rage.

"I'm sorry," Quinn said again, raising his hands in surrender. "If you had been happy, I was going to fuck off. I didn't want to fuck up your life," he said helplessly.

"Fuck up my  _life_?" Carrie raged. Walking quickly towards Quinn, her anger bubbled over, and she pulled her arm back and slapped him across the face, hard. His hand rose to his cheek, and he took a step back, as she wound up to do it again.

" _Now_  you're worried about fucking up my life?" she raged. As she tried to smack Quinn again, he brought his arms up and blocked her, then instinctively grabbed her wrists, attempting to disable her attack. She was furious. He was fucked. "Where the fuck were you two years ago?" she screamed, grappling with him, fighting to loosen his grip, and belt him again.

"I never meant to hurt you," Quinn said, wrestling with her, both of them panting, out of breath. "I can't even tell you how sorry I am."

" _Fuck you, Quinn_ ," Carrie shouted, fuming. He had pulled her close, in the effort to prevent him from injuring herself or him any further. He frog-marched her over to the wall, finally realizing that he'd have to truly overpower her to get her to stop. She was boiling mad, and nothing he was saying would cool her off.

"Stop, it now, Carrie, please," he pleaded. He had managed to push her back into the blank wall between the two windows, and pin her wrists to the wall next to her head. "You'll hurt yourself," he gasped.

"I'm already hurt," she said, and started crying. This was worse than her anger, and, powerless in the wake of her beauty, their separation, and his own desire, he kissed her, silencing her next outcry.

Her tears touched his cheek as the kiss went on and on, their taste salty in his mouth, as he pressed on with bruising intensity, crushing pressure. Nothing at all like the tender insinuation and gentle seduction that had begun this liaison years ago. She kissed him back viciously, biting his lip and tongue, and when he let go of her wrists, she started to slap and pummel at his chest. He had to grapple with her and pin her wrists again, and then he levered his whole weight, his torso and pelvis against her, to pin her to the wall. He had the upper hand physically, but felt completely defenseless emotionally. If she rejected him now, he'd want to go right out the window. He released her swollen lips, and moved down, kissing her jawline and neck.

"Carrie, Carrie, please," he said, inhaling the scent of her skin.

"No, no, no…." she moaned, pushing back against him.

At this, Quinn regained his senses a bit, let go completely, and took a step back.

"Do you really mean _no_?" he said, as vulnerable as he'd ever been. The dark hollows under his eyes hurt her heart.

She stared at him for a moment. Seemed to come to herself. Her rage cooled, but her ardor did not. She stepped closer to Quinn again, and reaching up, started to unbutton his shirt.

"I don't mean no. I mean yes. Take me to the bedroom," she said, pulling his shirt off over his shoulders. Quinn's eyes flashed in the half-darkness.

Shirtless, he squatted down and lifted Carrie up over his shoulder, turning his head sideways to kiss her hip. He felt her silky hair flowing over his bare back, and her lips kiss his shoulderblade as he carried her, caveman style, to the bed.


	15. Höhepunkt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter dedicated with affection to a wonderful poet, the late Robert Dana (1929-2010)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is all there  
> the emptiness gentle in her hands
> 
> She is not herself  
> There is nothing she has not wanted
> 
> But the room has kept to its own whiteness
> 
> -The Woman on the Mall  
> Robert Dana

Carrie's head swam when Quinn tossed her over his shoulder, and carried her into his bedroom. The drinks had made her dizzy, and the preceding events were disconcerting. She thought he'd be pissed, expected him to throw her on the bed, tear her clothes off and violently complete what had begun against the wall of his flat. But he paced to the bedroom slowly, as if sleepwalking, and set her down gently, seated on the edge of the narrow bed, like he was afraid she would break. Then he knelt down in front of her, parted her knees, and leaned in between them. He kissed her gently again, an altar-kiss, hardly any tongue, and no force, as if he was worried he'd crush her lips like a flower. Then he sat back on his heels, hands on his knees.

"I want you to say that... you forgive me," he said, finally. "I should not have left you, gone to Syria. Writing you those letters, that was the most fucked-up thing I have ever done... or ever will do."

Carrie looked back at him. Considering the number of questionable acts Quinn had committed in his life, that was quite a statement. She responded softly, raising her hand to his cheek. "I forgive you. And it's not all your fault, you know. I could have called."

He took her hand, kissed the palm. The light from the outside streetlights cast the muscles of his chest into relief, as if he was a Michelangelo sculpture. He was just that beautiful to Carrie, but when he shifted his eyes back up to her, they were shadowy and miserable. The magnificent, inscrutable, dream-Quinn she had always hoped would turn up and ravish her had turned out to be a human being, after all. And that was alright.

He moved her hand down, pressed it to his heart. She realized that since she had seen him last, she had just been marking time. Crossing days off a calendar. When he opened his mouth, he confirmed her thoughts by saying almost the same thing. He moved her hand to his cheek, where he held it.

"Since I last saw you, I was a walking dead man, Carrie. Help me. Help me this time," he said. He wasn't begging, but almost. Her hands floated up, and almost without her intention, started to unbutton her blouse.

"I will. I'll help you," she said, more urgently.

As he saw more and more of her skin revealed in the dusky light, Quinn's eyes widened. He sucked in his breath, and stood, removing his clothes as quickly as possible. When he was naked, manhood waving about at the ready, he stooped to pull off her boots, to finish undressing her, and lay her back on the bed, arranging her head on the meager pillow.

"Jesus Christ, it's cold in here," Carrie shivered, laughing. "Haven't you turned on the heating?" Her face turned to him, kneeling at the bedside, and the sight of her lit his eyes like the sun.

"I didn't notice," Quinn said, smiling. He lay down on top of her, full length. "Let me warm you up," he said. His cock had slipped in between her legs, lay nosing at her entrance, which was already wet with the waiting.

"Please, Quinn," she said, "I don't think you know how much I need you. Wanted  _this_. I need your help, too."

Arms wrapped around each other, the thin sheet twined around them like a shroud, Quinn slowly entered her body until he was fully sheathed. Bit by bit, so as not to miss any part of the experience, or injure her. So much for foreplay, she thought, and giggled a bit, nervously, into his ear. Then, wrapped her legs up and around him, digging her heels into his ass to push him in more deeply. As deep as he could go. She squeezed her muscles down on his prick, and felt him gasp into her hair.

Quinn moved back, from where his chin had been digging into the top of her head, and looked down at her. "Keep your eyes open," he commanded. "Look at me. It's  _me_ ," he said, managing to sound completely in command, and at her mercy at the same time.

"Oh, my God, Quinn," she said. "Oh. I missed you," Carrie said. The rhythm of his thrusting increased. She lost track of words, or even how to speak. He possessed her, pressing her down into the thin mattress, the overwhelming feeling of just being with him, the strangeness of the surroundings, all of it creating an unreality to the moment. Like another dream, she thought. His rhythm throbbed, pulsating, his lust overwhelmed, and love and darkness took them.

The night wind picked up outside, and began to blow. It moaned around the windows, creating a draught and even drowning out their sighs. So much loss, so much time wasted, and it still felt like winter, with no end of the cold, not even to be hoped for. Carrie didn't know how long it been, but Quinn climaxed quickly, calling out her name, and then for God, and then moaning, clutching her so tightly she lost her breath for a minute. Then kissing her, joining their breath, as if they could only breathe while kissing. Fucking him was like running through a long black train, she thought insanely.

She had joined with him; he had  _had_  her. But she hadn't come. She sighed, and as his heartbeat slowed, his little kisses fell on her temples, and on the top of her head – the parts of her he could reach, while sheathed in her warmth. She was so incredibly turned on, more horny than ever – going out of her mind, really - a woman's quandary, that the man's parts, however satisfactorily sized or used (Quinn was a bit longer and certainly thicker than her ex, of that she was sure) didn't always hit the right spot. And even when they did, sometimes, it wasn't enough.

"Oh, God, Carrie," Quinn said, his sweat dripping onto the mattress next to her. "Did you get there? I kind of blacked out." A real gentleman, at least he asked, she thought, smiling. Better than she was used to.

"Actually," she said, frustrated. "No." She sighed deeply as he backed off, and slid out. A part of her howled in mourning at their separation. When would it come again? Soon, or else, her animal mind replied.

Quinn smiled wanly down at her, sitting between her parted knees. He was calmer, in control. He had his mojo working again, she could see that, as making love to her confirmed some of his deepest feelings and annihilated the worst of his insecurity.

"I can help you with that, Carrie," he said, sitting back on his heels, flaccid cock laying to one side, dripping with their juices. "I can help you with anything. Come to me." She sat up, and moved into his arms.

So different than Brody, she thought, who fucked like a Marine. So different than Markus, who fucked like a librarian, she thought, almost hysterically. Quinn kissed her, embraced her, and then positioned her body over his lap, as he sat on the edge of the bed. She lay face down, spread full length, for Quinn to touch. His hands, the shadowy hands of a pirate, stroked her full-length, starting in her hair and ending by squeezing her heels.

"I'm here to please you. And we have all the time in the world," he remarked, as if they were at a coffee shop and choosing books. "So,  _come_  for me."

His hand moved between her legs, his fingers into her cleft, and he started to stroke her. Stimulate her. She wiggled and his left hand pressed her back down onto his lap. She was supported full length and didn't need to feel tense, but Carrie was totally vulnerable to his caresses.

"That's good," he said, feeling her shift and struggle. "Yeah. You're going to come. I'll make you come all night," he said, as if she'd become his new objective.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, Quinn," Carrie said, and tried to push up from the bed. It was so fucking intimate, such an intrusion. Ridiculous to say after they had just fucked. But he had her pinned over his knee, and he was going to make her come. He pressed her back down. She was helpless.

"Shhhhh," Quinn said, relishing the moment. "Just feel it. Feel what I'm giving you. There's nobody in the world for me, but you.  _Feel_  it, Carrie."

She felt a tight knot of pre-orgasm building. "Oh, fuck, Quinn. Please…" and couldn't speak any more. He kept rubbing her nodule, kept working her. She was as wet a monsoon. She gasped, sighed and heaved for breath. Finally, like a storm breaking on the ocean, she came.

"Ahhhh…. Oh God," she said, her head dropping in submission, her orgasm crashing over her. Quinn's left hand went up, gripped the hair at the base of her head, and controlled her, holding her. She was his. She came, so hard. Once, then again, and his fingers didn't stop. She was so keyed up, so oversensitive, so near the edge, that anything that touched her for the next four hours would make her come. She wouldn't be able to cross her legs without orgasming, she thought. She spent herself in total trust. Quinn would take care of her. She could relax with him. She could rest. She realized she hadn't felt that in two and a half years. Her head dropped back to the bed, to the thin pillow, now soaked with her sweat.

Quinn's agile fingers extracted the maximum effect out of the first two orgasms, then ceased, and released her. He reached under her shoulders and knees, and turned Carrie to face him, cradled in his arms like a baby.

"Better?" he asked, smiling. He knew the answer.

"Yeah. I've never felt better," she said, honestly. His lips grazed hers, then connected, tongues meeting, and exploring.

"I'm glad," he said, shortly. Back to his Quinn-ness, she thought, and smiled.

Without speaking, he positioned her spread-legged over his lap, where a robust hardon had again emerged. "Again?" he asked briefly, hoping her answer was yes.

She crawled upwards, and mounted him. "Again, yes," she said. She rode him to conclusion, sitting up on his lap, and slower this time. A slow rise and fall, the meaning of it known to them. but no one else. Their eyes were in contact as they fucked, and eventually, Quinn's fingers gripped her waist.

"I'm going to come. You coming too?" He seemed frantic with need again, like it was the first time. As he asked, his thumb found her clit, and started to press it, to conjure her orgasm from it. In her overstimulated state, she didn't even have time to answer, only a moment to clutch at his shoulders, drop her head to them, trusting in his strength. His thumb had pried the orgasm out of her, and her channel clamped down on his member.

"Quinn," she gasped, "Yeah, I'm coming. I'm going to come." And she did.

Sitting up, they held each other until the spasm passed. Then, she sat back, his slackening cock still twitching inside of her. He smiled, and kissed the corner of her mouth.

"Fuck, Carrie," Quinn said, as her head came down on his shoulder. "I'm really fucking tired."

"Me too. Can we sleep, now?" Carrie asked.

She lay down full length on the bed, while Quinn got up, and tussled with the flat's thermostat to push the heating controls to a better temperature for Carrie. He found a blanket in the closet, and spread it and the sheet over her, then climbed beneath. Her body pressed along his, from calves to chest, their hands clasped together above the pillow, Quinn felt himself relax for the first time in two and a half years.

The wind howled on outside, as the lovers fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	16. am Morgen nach

It was still dark, but around the edges of the curtains, a very faint dawn light was filtering in, and along with the streetlights, it rendered the room into a grainy black and white negative. Like an archival sepia photo from the past, Quinn thought, and hoped that didn't mean it was already a memory. He launched into some instant nostalgia: it would never be like this again.

Some kind of spring storm had blasted through in the night, and as they slept, the lovers had turned. When they first laid down, Quinn had spooned Carrie, her bottom pushed into Quinn's belly, his arms around her and his breath in her hair. At some point they had stirred, rearranged, and both had turned. Carrie had wound her arms around Quinn, under his neck and over his chest, her cheek between his shoulder blades, clutching him for warmth and comfort, and smoothing into his back as the wind complained around the eaves. Her lips cleaved against the skin over his spine, as they had slept on.

He'd woken first, and turned to her, staring. He propped himself up on his elbow, and braced his back against the wall – the coldest spot on the bed, of course he would occupy it – he studied her face.

He had made love to Carrie, and lain next to her all night. She had calmed his sleep and comforted his usual nightmares: he couldn't even remember having one. But it had been agonizing, the way she'd found out about his observation of her apartment. He still felt like a prick for doing it. But she had forgiven him. For that, for everything. For the two years of silence that tore them apart. For the foolish move that sent him to a death zone, instead of into her arms. He was an idiot, he was so stupid. How could she forgive him? But she had. He reached out, tentatively, and stroked her hair away from her face. She writhed, seeming to try to move closer to his warm spot. It  _had_  been really cold in this flat. He was ordinarily hot-blooded, and didn't require a room to be that warm, in order to be comfortable. Beyond that, though, he just wasn't used to paying attention to creature comforts. It was like they didn't exist. Time to start, he thought, as her eyelids fluttered open and she saw him.

Quinn leaned down, and kissed her cheek.

"You awake?" he whispered in Carrie's ear.

She smiled, without moving. Then angled her face up to him.

"I am now," she said. She stretched, languorously, her arms above her head, hands doubled into fists. She was delicious, a vanilla layer cake of a woman. He wanted to eat her up.

They faced each other, heads resting on opposite ends of the pillow. Their hands reached up, came together. He pulled the back of her hand to his lips, and pressed it there.

"I hope you don't have any regrets," Quinn said. He thought not, but he was hoping for reassurance. It was so hard for him to be vulnerable. It was why he'd disappeared before, back to Syria and known dangers, as opposed to the potential rejection of a beloved woman. The  _only_  beloved woman, his mind intoned.

"None," Carrie said, briefly, and squirmed closer to him. "My only regret is not reading your letter," she said, looking at him seriously.

"It was my fault," Quinn said. His right hand came around, cupped her chin. Reached back and stroked her ear and hair. "I could have come. I could have called. All this silence, it was a waste."

"Yeah," Carrie said. "If I could have, I would have been with you."

Her admission overflowed Quinn's register, and he sat up, clawing his hands back through his hair in dismay. All this pain, separation, anxiety and loss, and it was all because he hadn't waited. He climbed out of the bed, over Carrie. She turned to look at him, concerned, recognizing the signs of upset.

"Right back," he said, and headed to the bathroom.

He urinated, flushed, and after washing his hands, sat on the can lid, thinking about why he was in this mess. He put his face in his hands. Who the fuck was he? What right did he have to be here? He was a killer. There was nothing about him that was lovable. What would he do, put on a frilly apron, and make some chicken fricassee? What did he have to teach a child, how to field-strip an AK?  _Fuck_. He felt useless.

"Quinn?" Carrie's voice inquired, from the other side of the locked door. She tapped, gently. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah," he said, briefly, wiping his face on the towel.

He moved to the door, opened it, and saw her standing there in her naked glory. He put his hands on her hips, and looked down into her face.

"I failed you," he said, honestly. "It bothers me."

"No," she said, shaking her head, first slow, then fast, a flutter of denial, and then burying her face in his breast. "No. I failed you. I looked for you, but not hard enough. I wanted you, but I never read your letters. I had no idea, Quinn," she said.

He reclined on the door frame of the restroom, Carrie collected carefully in his arms, pulled close and protected like a relic.

"Had no idea of what?" Quinn asked. His eyes, cast down at her, were as serious as death.

"I had no idea how much I loved you," Carrie admitted. She turned her face to the side, holding to him as if to life itself.

Quinn's nostrils flared. He reached under her arms and knees, and carried her back to the bed. As he laid her on it, he kissed her cheek, then stood to his full height, a little intimidating, very tall and very strong. Then he said,

"I had no idea either."

It was as close to an admission of love as she would get this night, and she held her arms up to him.

He laid down next to her, his warmth restoring her to life, and uttered a simple statement.

Quinn nodded towards the windows.

"It isn't morning yet," he said.

His eyes, gray and alabaster, pinned Carrie in her place. She nodded back, and they commenced to fill their senses.


	17. Tageslicht

The lovers fell back to sleep, after a long, slow bout, Quinn taking his time, Carrie's arms around his neck, merging until her cries were louder than they had been at any point the previous evening – almost hysterical. She had climaxed, that he knew for certain. Their connection was enough to bring her off this time, no extra touching on his part. The enormous orgasm seemed to destroy all that was left of her consciousness, which pleased Quinn immensely. They both collapsed into the rest they needed so badly, Carrie's head on Quinn's shoulder, he cradling her near, against the length of his side. He wedged the right side of his body next to the old-school wood frame dormer windows – the better to block out the cold for her – pulled her close with his left arm, tucking the blankets around them. Afterward, he'd fallen into a state of near-sleep, with just enough of his faculties left to stay awake, and somewhat aware. He knew he didn't need to do it – the Charlottestrasse neighborhood was safe to the point of being bucolic. But, he couldn't quite turn it off. Not for a while, at any rate.

It was funny, he thought as he tried to drift off, how the most important things seemed to happen in bed, but took up such a short time. And less pleasurable, more mundane things in life took up the rest of the time, almost all of our lives, but they seemed so tedious. He thought about it, and realized that he hadn't felt anything like happiness around any person or activity for many years. He sighed, and nosed her hair again. He had spent such a long time missing her. Going into danger, around the world, making contact with assets, hoping people would speak to them or help them find the targets, and in most cases, shooting at and killing the people he'd done surveillance on. He purposefully pushed those thoughts down deep – he was on leave, and Carrie was here. Finally, he was able to rest, her breasts squashed up against his rib cage. Life wasn't going to get any better, he thought. Might as well roll with it.

A few hours later, Carrie stirred earlier than he would have, rolling over and sitting up, breaking their night-bond and combing her hair back with a long-fingered hand. She stood up, and he watched her butt as she sashayed back out into the living area, her figure a perfect silhouette moving away from him. He heard her rummaging through her purse, and then heard her curse, then laugh. She shuffled back into the bedroom, and he closed his eyes enough to pretend to be asleep. This was an important moment, almost a moment of religious significance: if she was warm and desirous of him now, they had a love affair going. Or something like one. But if she started to collect her things, dress, and attempt to leave unnoticed, he'd know that she was happy to have a quick roll in the hay, but didn't care much about what lay beyond. He almost held his breath.

Carrie came to him, naked and unashamed, and sat on the edge of the bed. She sat still, seeming to gaze at him, and then with her hand, stroked his left cheekbone, where her palm had left an impression the night before. It felt a bit sore, and he thought it might be bruised. Whatever, he thought. He had it coming.

The sheet and thin blanket had pulled down, and Quinn felt Carrie's hand explore the healing bullet wound in his left bicep, at first gently touching the place where his stitches had been, then, covering the whole developing scar with her hand, as if she could heal him by willpower. Then, she leaned over, and her lips touched his cheek very gently, like she was awakening sleeping beauty. She sat up.

"Quinn," Carrie said. "I have to go."

He feigned sleepiness, and rolled over to face her, hiding the bullet wound under the pillow. "Yeah?"

"I have to get Franny," she said. She started to look around the floor, finding her clothing and his in the wreckage of the previous night. She discovered and pulled on a pair of leopard print panties, and found her black brassiere tossed into the chair in the corner. She stood up, and facing the dormer windows in a touchingly shy way, put it on. Her body was lovely – slender, trim, and athletic. He sat up, and felt for his boxers, his head full of fuzz. He wasn't used to being relaxed; it was a bit bewildering.

When he had them pulled up, he just sat and watched her. "OK," he conceded, watching as Carrie pulled on her black socks, dark jeans. She buttoned them and sat next to him in the narrow bed, her bra hinting at the delicious cleavage beneath. What an experience this night had been. Even if she was about to give him the "this can never happen again" one-nighter speech, it had been worth it, he could die now.

"You have five days?" she asked, her hand landing softly on his shoulder.

"Actually, I could have a month of leave. If I thought it was wanted," he said, hoping she'd hear the "I" implicit in the "it" statement. If she didn't want him anymore, there was no point, and it was back to whatever shithole they'd be posted to next.

Carrie smiled. "A whole month, wow. That's better than I thought. Well, you better not stay here," she said. His stomach fell… what the hell did she mean by that?

"Um, ok," he said, trying to gather her meaning.

"Yeah. You should let this apartment go, and stay with me," she said. Then, she smiled radiantly, stood up, and continued dressing.

"Wow," Quinn said genuinely surprised. "I'm, um, glad to hear you say that. Are you sure? There's nobody else… to be bothered?"

She was facing the window, buttoning the black silk shirt over her torso, blonde hair in a delightful mess. "Nope. Just me and Franny."

"And there isn't any, um…" Quinn started, thinking of the last night. She turned sharply to face him, and he looked at the floor, reaching for his socks.

"No," said Carrie slowly, turning towards him, her head cocked to the side, as she finished buttoning her shirt, and pulled her hair out of the collar. "No, there isn't any 'um', but you already knew that, right?" Her eyes were laser focused on Quinn.

"Um," Quinn said again, helpless. Now he had put his foot in it. He hadn't intended to mention that he'd tailed her to the restaurant, and witnessed her breakup. "Um, yeah, I knew that. I just wanted…"

"For Christ's sake, Quinn," Carrie said, a little more agitated. "What did you see?"

"Well," he admitted, swallowing. "I saw you crying." He stood up and went to the living room, to find his shirt where she'd thrown it.

"Yeah, and?" Carrie insisted, following at his heels.

"Um. I might have… been in the restaurant, when you met with what's his name," he said, "I'm sorry," he finished weakly.

"I should have known," Carrie said severely. "Jesus Christ."

She stomped around, found her boots, and began to tug them on angrily. She seemed almost too hostile to speak again. Quinn stood and followed her, leaning on the doorjamb. He felt like such a fucking moron that he didn't know where to start.

"Carrie, I…"

"Don't 'Carrie' me, Goddamn it," she snapped. "How can I ever trust you? How many times have you done this over the years? And what have you seen? This makes me sick, Quinn," and she stalked off to look out the windows, down at her own place, now thrown into sharp relief in the bright morning light.

"No, Carrie no. I promise you. You have to believe me. I haven't been checking up on you. I got here Wednesday and that was the first time I'd seen you since we last met, I swear to God."

He came up behind her, and put his arms around her, and his face down onto her shoulder.

"You have no idea," he mumbled into her shirt, "what a horrorshow my life has been. I didn't want to bring you more misery. I feel like I bring misery everywhere I go. Wednesday it just… made a weird kind of sense to… look in on you first. But I swear I have never done it before. I am so sorry."

She squirmed uncomfortably in his grip, and with an effort, pulled away and turned to him.

"Quinn, stop it. I believe you." She reached up and hugged him. "This is really fucked up, but I have to believe you."

He held her close, so glad his creeping around hadn't alienated her permanently.

"So, you know, then?" Carrie said. "I dumped a guy last night, someone I had been seeing for a long time."

"I figured it out, yeah," Quinn said. "Are you ok?"

Carrie looked up at Quinn, their faces so close.

"At the time, I didn't know if you were dead or alive. I just knew that somewhere out there, was someone who'd understand me better. Or if not, I'd be ok on my own." She sighed, and laid her head on his chest.

He squeezed her closer, as she finished. "I had no idea that you were here. It's a weird coincidence." Then she leaned back, squinted at him. "It was a coincidence, wasn't it?"

"Absolutely. Yes."

She sighed, and went to pick up her coat and purse.

"I was serious, you know," Carrie said, as she prepared to leave.

"About…" Quinn said, nervously.

"About you letting this place go. Come stay with us. With Franny and me. If you're going to be gaping at us anyway, you might as well be in the same room," she snarked, seeming to recover her sense of humor.

Her wry smile warmed Quinn's heart, so that it was almost boiling over. "I'd like that," he rasped. His lips grazed Carrie's hairline as she held him close, for a final hug.

He had been so estranged from regular people for so long, he had almost forgotten how to act in a socially acceptable fashion. But he finally remembered.

"Can I bring anything? And when should I come?"

"Well," Carrie said. "I need to head out to Anna's, bring the kid home, then take a shower and clean the place up. What do you say to ten? You can bring us some brunch."

"Brunch, right," Quinn said. "What should I get?"

"Well, some sweet rolls, some fruit. Franny likes berries. Some hard cheese and maybe a piece of smoked salmon? And some Pellegrino water, lemon, something nice like that."

"Got it," Quinn replied, walking her to the door. "Where should I go for all that?"

"You're the covert operative," she laughed. "Figure it out."

With that, she was gone down the stairs, her yellow hair a swirl as she rounded the corner, gripping the lintel post and swinging like a child. As she disappeared, Quinn gave a real, genuine smile – the first, it seemed, for many years – and headed in for a shower.


	18. Familienglück

Quinn showered and shaved, and dressed in the only other clean outfit he had, gray gabardine slacks and a black button-down shirt, and tossed the rest of his belongings, such as they were, into a small leather duffel. At some point, he actually overheard himself whistling a lighthearted tune, then stopped and shook his head, smiling. He hadn't expected things to turn out this well. It was too much.

Out from under the bed, he pulled out a weapons case – a small one, at least for him. The hardsider contained his disassembled Glock and his classic Beretta, as well as an assortment of ammo, maintenance items, and a couple of holsters. What kind of a guy takes more weapons than clothes on vacation? Me, he thought ruefully. It was the kind of guy he was. He had no after-shave, nor any other real niceties of any kind, so he patted his cheeks down with cold water to calm the razor burn, wincing at the throb on his cheekbone where Carrie had pimp-slapped him. Her palm had left a reddish-purple bruise the size of a quarter. He was lucky she hadn't doubled up her fist, he would be nursing a nice broken nose right about now. It hurt, but he smiled anyway.

He stepped out into the living room, and cast a last glance down into Carrie's living room across the street, where he guessed, but didn't know for sure, there was still nobody home – Carrie had yanked all the curtains closed the moment she'd arrived home, looking with a cocked eyebrow up at the apartment windows as she did so. He had smiled, knowing it was for his benefit, and at least somewhat tongue-in-cheek. She must have shoved off while he was in the shower, and was now on her way to the nanny's neighborhood. Should he take his guns and his duffel, and turn in the key? Or keep the place, just in case they needed a spare crib while he was in town? He had to pay three month's rent up front, just to jack the place from the intended tenant. He decided that he might as well keep the key, and if he didn't occupy the space, oh well. Besides, he thought dolefully, if Carrie has a gutful of me and kicks me out some night, it'd be nice not to spend the night on a Tiergarten park bench.

He needed to shop. That's what he would do first. Then he'd come back for his stuff, and keep the key. It felt right. He left the flat, stepping lively, and felt the first warmth of a spring breeze on his face when he got outside.

* * *

Carrie had hurried to shower and dress, anxious to see Fran and get back home, but not so anxious to deal with the round of questioning that would come down from Anna and Jens. Carrie knew that Anna had expected Markus to propose, maybe had even been commiserating on the ring, and had further expected Carrie to accept. Why wouldn't she marry a nice young doctor, right? She wrinkled her nose now at how wrong it felt. Whatever affection she'd felt for Markus had vaporized when he'd left her at the restaurant with such a nasty phrase, and the rest was gone like a puff of smoke the moment she laid eyes on Quinn again.

She shook her head disgustedly in the shower. When she'd gotten up in the morning, she'd seen her phone had 6 missed calls, all from Markus Wagner – and three new voicemails, also from Markus, which she ignored. She'd been through a lot, but she didn't need to sign up for more misery now. She considered how she'd ended up with Markus in the first place - Quinn's disappearance, her father's death, and Saul's apparent betrayal, all had prompted her to leave the Agency, abandoning the career that she'd been building for years. For years, she had been on the warpath. And suddenly, nothing in the world mattered but Franny. And she hadn't a non-CIA or non-asset boyfriend in something like 15 years. If you could even call Brody a boyfriend, she sighed.

There were people who managed a life outside the Agency, and bipolar individuals that had fine, long-lasting relationships. However, even when she wrapped her mind around that, she hadn't seen herself as particularly lovable. It had taken almost two years of therapy to lift up her head and love herself for who she was, after those paralyzing losses. Meanwhile, she'd just been pacing along with Markus, who had never been awful enough to leave, and always good to Franny - just borderline controlling, just borderline jealous. But she'd had enough of that. She had just started to assert her independence again. And for the first time in a long time, she felt confident, even happy. She grinned in the mirror as she brushed her teeth, popped her meds, dried her hair, and put on a bit of makeup. Grabbing her coat and Franny's fold-up stroller, she headed for the U-Bahn. I wonder if Quinn is tailing me? Strangely, the thought was amusing, not disconcerting.

He was the biggest surprise of all, Quinn was. She remembered blurting out in the night that she loved him. Though she felt like it would be hard for her to say again, as daylight thoughts so often are, she had meant it at the time. And Quinn had pined for her and wanted her all these years, but had felt he was rejected. They had to do better than that, communicating, no matter what happened in the future. She could see how damaged he was by the life he'd chosen. Who in their right mind stays out of the picture for more than two years, and then pops back up out of nowhere? Not only that, the first thing they decide to do after reappearing is set up a station to spy on the beloved, and secretly observe their comings and goings? I mean, what about a fucking phone call? It was completely cracked. He was so broken, so worried she'd toss him out, that her heart had welled with pity. He was still her Quinn. It might have seemed to him like the only choice to make, but from the outside, it made him seem neurotic… and more than a little unbalanced. It concerned her.

Then, there was this little matter of the obvious gunshot wound on his arm. Another, paler wound on his back, near the kidney, that looked to be the remnants of a knife fight. That one appeared to be bit older, but who knew? He looked more thin than she remembered, his cheekbones sharply defined. And as they'd snuggled, she'd felt his pelvic bone digging into her hip. He could do with some building up, as Anna would say. It made her feel protective. Maybe she could give him the help she always wished she could have, after they parted ways in D.C. Even if it was just safe place to stay. She couldn't save Fara, and she couldn't save Alan, or John, or any of the friends that had been murdered by Haqqani. But maybe she could pull Quinn back from the edge. Besides, she wanted to be with him. She didn't feel like she required more justification than that.

She stepped on her train, looking around carefully. No Quinn, at least not that she could see. He should have found a grocery store by now, she hoped.

* * *

Arriving at Anna's, Carrie got a huge crash-hug around the knees from Franny, and a worried embrace from Anna.

"Doctor Markus, he called us here. He said he couldn't get hold of you," Anna said, more than a trifle accusingly. Please, Carrie thought, don't let this breakup sour my relationship with my nanny. She inhaled slowly, and picked Franny up for a snuggle.

"Well," Carrie said slowly, "I'm fine. I didn't feel like talking."

"He's very worried about you, Miss Carrie," Anna warned.

"Yeah, well," Carrie said, more than a bit miffed that Markus was still trying to pull her strings. "He doesn't need to be."

"Do you want to stay here this weekend, so you are not alone?" Jens' concern was much more for her than for Markus, and she found it touching.

"Thanks, but no. Fran and I have some plans."

Jens and Anna waited for her to describe further, but Carrie wasn't going to dish the dirt, at least not too much.

"I found out an old friend is in town," she said. Collecting Franny's love bunny, bib, clothes, dishes, and assorted kid paraphernalia, she left the family to themselves.

"Come on kid. There's someone you need to see again," she smiled, walking briskly towards the station through the morning sunlight.

* * *

An hour or so later, Carrie and Franny were home. Carrie had started a pot of coffee, which she needed badly. And Franny was on the floor, slamming toys together. Whoever invented musical instruments for toddlers was a real sadist. Or a masochist, she thought, or both, watching the kid shake maracas and slam tiny cymbals together. She was in the kitchen, filling a cup, and hoping Quinn hadn't gotten lost, when she heard a ping at the entryway intercom. She went down to let Quinn in.

On the other side of the glass door he stood, with a paper bag from the local grocery, a bunch of red tulips balanced on the top. In his other hand, Quinn held his duffel and gun case.

"Come in," Carrie said, unabashedly pleased that he'd brought flowers.

"Yeah," he said. "I found  _Mitte Meer,"_ Quinn said, as Carrie took the grocery bags from him. He rearranged the luggage, and followed her up the stairs.

"That's a nice shop. Did one of the locals help you?" Carrie asked, unlocking the door of the flat.

"No, Siri did," Quinn said. Carrie laughed. He sounded happy, he looked good. It was like they'd stepped through a time machine and gone back to the old days. Only without the adversarial nature of the work relationship, there was nothing left but remembering the good times, and making some new ones. It reminded her of an old saying, something about living once in reality, and the second time in memory.

"Here we are," Carrie said, and held the door for him again.

Franny turned around, and stared at Quinn, who stepped inside, so Carrie could close and lock the door behind them.

"Wow. Has she ever grown," he observed, setting his bags down.

"Yeah, they do that, if you keep feeding them," Carrie said drolly, "And on that note, I'm going to scare up some plates for us."

Quinn set his bags down, and followed her into the small kitchen, where she unpacked, refrigerated things, and put the flowers in a vase.

"Pretty," she observed. "You didn't have to."

"I did," he said resolutely. "What can I do?"

"Pour yourself some of this French roast, and talk to me. Keep me amused," she said, laying out plates and opening cheeses.

"Carrie," Quinn said again in a way that stopped her bustle. She turned to look at him, and he stared back at her, full on. "Are you sure about this?"

Carrie set down the grapes she'd been washing. Drying her hands on a towel, she walked to Quinn, and put her arms around his middle. He pulled her close, and turning his head to the side, lay his cheek on top her hair.

"Yes. I'm really sure. We don't have a lot of time. So let's not screw it up. Let's enjoy. OK?"

In the background, Franny started pounding her toy cymbals together again.

Carrie winced. "You might be sorry you said yes," she laughed.

Quinn smiled down at her, a sweet smile, though his eyes looked terribly sad, somehow. "Not a chance," he said.

* * *

They spent the morning feeding Franny and themselves a good brunch, laughing, and talking. They reminisced more, bringing up the memory of old jobs, the pleasantest memories, at least. The day had warmed up, and Carrie had opened the patio door, where Franny wobbled out and sat down with with her coloring book. She colored with big crayons in the sunlight, the coloring book between her spread legs, her bare toes pointing nearly opposite directions. Carrie shook her head. "Kids are so flexible," she said, "If I sat like that, I'd need to go to the chiropractor."

"I don't know, I remember watching you in yoga class. You seemed... flexible," he said, smiling his crooked smile.

Carrie scoffed. "I don't get to many yoga classes, now," she said, "Someday I'll get back to it."

"Hello Kitty, Mommy," Franny said. Carrie got up, and went back into the house, coming out with a Hello Kitty coloring book. She handed it to Fran.

"What do you say?" Carrie asked.

"Tank you," Franny intoned.

Quinn smiled down at her, and sat in one of her patio chairs, a coffee cup in his hand, already looking more at ease.

"I know you can't tell me much about where you were," she said. "I get that. But, all this time, Quinn. Was there anyone special?"

At the question, his eyes shifted to her, and he didn't say anything for a moment. He seemed to be both remembering something, and memorizing her face. After a moment, he answered in his inimitable brief Quinn-style.

"No," he said gruffly.

"Really? I mean like,  _nobody_?"

"Nobody  _special_ ," he said.

Carrie's eyebrows went up, and she responded in a ribald fashion, teasing him. "Oh, I  _see_. Nobody  _special_ , well there you  _have_  it. Is  _that_  what they're calling it these days," she said, rolling her eyes. She laughed.

"Stop it," he said, smiling, pleased in spite of himself. "You were the one with the serious boyfriend," he pointed out.

At the thought of Markus, Carrie sighed, and fell back in her chair. "Well, you ought to know, since you were  _eavesdropping_ , that it didn't end well." Beside them, Franny had found a sticker page in the coloring book, and was dividing the stickers between her coloring book and her own t-shirt.

"Was he good to you?" Quinn said. It obviously concerned him, and he looked a bit riled, like if he heard any stories about Carrie being neglected or abused, that he'd go wring Markus' neck.

"Yeah, in his own way. He wanted more from me than I could give. Than I could give  _him_ , I should say. By the end, it was pretty annoying. And not much fun," she observed, honestly. If she couldn't tell Quinn the truth, he who had seen her at her worst, who could she tell?

"I can't say I'm sorry," he said, looking at her intently.

"Yeah. Me either," she said, smiling back at him. They sat and sipped coffee in silence for a while, where below, Franny had started sucking her thumb with one hand, and coloring with the other.

"Oh, there's the signal," Carrie said. "It's almost naptime."

"No nap! I'm not tired," Franny insisted, rubbing her eyes again.

"Hey. What do you say we go shopping later?" Quinn said suddenly. Such a strange statement, and so out of place. What does an assassin shop for, she thought helplessly, more guns?

"Well, sure," Carrie said, confused. "Shopping for what? Do you need something?"

Quinn stood, and walked back inside. Carrie led Franny through the patio doors, and followed him, closing up behind them.

"No," he said. "But you do." He pointed at the windows, where the noon light streamed in through the sheers, yellow and grand.

"Thicker curtains," he said, and gave a wicked smile.


	19. Ruhepause

For Saturday lunch, Carrie scared up some snacks for Franny, and the noon hour slipped away. Eventually the child fretfully lay down for a nap with her love bunny and fell asleep.

"Whew," Carrie said, rejoining Quinn in the small living room. "She's out."

"Great kid," Quinn observed.

"But exhausting," Carrie confirmed, nodding.

"You should go take a nap too," he suggested, nodding towards the bedroom.

"I  _am_  pretty tired," Carrie said. "But there's so much to talk about."

"We have a whole month," he said.

She restrained herself from the obvious retort, although edging around the issue wasn't going to make it go away. Still, she wondered, "Only a month? What then?" Instead, she held out her hand.

"Lay down with me."

He stood, taking her hand as well as the temperature of the situation- she was inviting him to bed to sleep, not to make love. For the moment, that was fine with him. As the tension of the last few missions slipped away, Quinn found himself feeling more and more tired. He felt like he could sleep all day, all night, for a week, even, and not be caught up. He figured it was part of recuperating from his injuries. Along with the exhaustion came an extraordinary hunger that had cropped up while he sat at Carrie's compact kitchen table, and had not really released him since. Carrie had eaten a dainty plate, Franny had gorged on fruit and sweet rolls, but Quinn found himself cleaning up his plate, reloading, and doing it again, until almost everything was gone. He had enjoyed relaxing with them, but as Carrie led him into the bedroom, he realized he had become so heavy-lidded, he was nearly asleep already.

"I can't believe how zapped I am," he said, kicking off his shoes and collapsing on the bed.

"I can. Just rest," Carrie said, and laying down, spooned herself backward into his body. He pulled her close, laid his head on her sweet-smelling pillow, and was out a moment after he closed his eyes.

* * *

The rest of Saturday was as peaceful as it started. That night, they went to dinner together at a nearby pub, at Quinn's insistence. Franny had mushed carrots around and gamely tried to stab pieces of meat with a fork, while Quinn and Carrie enjoyed steaks and mashed potatoes. Then the three walked slowly back to Carrie's place. She felt so comfortable with Quinn, and despite his bizarre spying, already felt trust for him again, just as she had all those years ago when they worked together. For a while, in Islamabad, Quinn and Saul had been the only people she'd trusted. Now she was down to one.

Carrie gave Franny a bath, and evidently that was enough excitement for one day, because Franny soon said that she wanted to go night-night, and pulled her Mom towards her bedroom.

"She puts herself to bed?" Quinn asked, amused. "I thought kids fought bedtime."

"Some of them do. But Franny knows when to quit," Carrie said, snuggling her in.

"Nothing like her Mom, then," Quinn said, which earned him a squinty eye from Carrie.

They went to the living room, and after Carrie had doused all the room lights. Only Franny's nightlight shone out of a crack in her partially closed door. Quinn sat on the couch, and Carrie sat right next to him. In the bluish light of the outdoor streetlamps, they moved close and held each other, heads together, silent as lost children.

"I'm sorry," Quinn said again, after a long while.

"Stop with the apologetics," Carrie said. "We both fucked up."

"I know. But I'm really feeling it tonight," he said. A beat of silence went by, and then Quinn continued, his voice even, and quiet.

"I'm not good for anything," he said.

Carrie sat up and pulled away, and looking back, she snapped at him. "Cut the shit. Don't say that, Quinn. You're good for  _me_ ," she said, leaning back into him.

"I don't know about that," he said mournfully. "I want you to know… that whatever happens, I really tried. And that I never stopped thinking about you, not for one minute. But I don't feel like I deserve anything. I didn't expect you to want me at all."

She kissed his neck, below the ear, where she could reach, then nibbled at his earlobe. "I think you know  _that's_  not true."

His arms tightened, and breathing quickened, and a desperate feeling overwhelmed them both. There had been so little pleasure, and so much pain and privation. Carrie felt unexpected tears start up in her eyes.

She turned, climbed onto his lap, straddling him. She held him in her arms, and laid against his body, her head on his shoulder, as if she could force self-love inside him, by pushing it in. "You are deserving. You are good for something. Don't ever think you aren't," she whispered.

Quinn stood with Carrie still twined around him, and walked carefully towards the darkened bedroom.

* * *

He tossed Carrie down on the bed with more force than she'd been expecting, then, turned and shut the bedroom door tightly.

There was just enough streetlight to create shadow. Quinn's grey eyes glittered as he unbuckled his belt. "Do you really think I'm good for you, Carrie? Because I'm not so sure," he said. Holding the belt in both hands, he snapped the leather together, the abrupt sound inciting her imagination towards the violent coupling she had expected last night. He then threw it to the side of the bed, and started toward her, like a cougar approaching a trembling prey animal. Carrie felt excitement, fear and desire rear up in her guts. She sat back up, her hands trembling, reaching for the waistband of his pants. But Quinn shoved her back down on the bed, and climbed on top of her, using his weight to pin her.

"If I was good for you, would I do something like this?" he asked roughly. His right hand had slipped down to her crotch, clutched and held her there, pressing. His left hand caught her wrist, and restrained it near her ear. His teeth grazed her earlobe as he whispered to her, and he felt her shiver, as her ass lifted off the bed in response, and her heat throbbed through the tight jeans.

She moaned into his ear, senselessly. Finally, she took a deep breath and whispered back as he stimulated her. "Yeah, I do think you're good for me. You're good, it's so good. Don't stop," she gasped. He kept fueling her, kept the provocation up, at the same pace, with greater pressure, and she writhed under his touch.

"I don't think so," he said, bitterly, sensually. "If I were good for you, would I ask you for this?" Quinn let go, and lifted himself back off her, and standing at the foot of the bed, he seized her wrists and pulled her upright. Pulling her shirt off over her head, he fondled her breasts greedily through her lacy bra, then unsnapped his pants and pulled his cock out, impelling her head forward, his hand on her smooth hair. She willingly opened and swallowed, sucking him. He closed his eyes, and his head fell back. She cupped his ass in her hands to steady him as she drank him in.

She took him in deeply. "Oh, God," Quinn moaned, and then it was his turn to plead. "Carrie. Don't stop yet," he hissed. Carrie's eyes rolled as far up as they could to see if she could catch a glimpse of his face as she roused him. But he was too tall. He couldn't be any harder, she thought, tasting him, and suddenly backed away, lest they finish too quickly. He swore quietly as she pulled off, then started undressing her rapidly.

"Jesus Christ, Quinn, is this what you think is bad for me? I want this so much," she fretted, as he snatched her panties and pants around off her ankles in one swift move, and finished undressing himself hurriedly.

"I don't know, I don't know," he said, sighing it out. He grabbed her around the waist, turned her back to him, positioning her at the corner of the bed on her hands and knees. He was much stronger and heavier, and moved her around like she weighed nothing.

"I just know that I'll never get enough of you. So you'll have to tell me when to stop. You make me crazy. I could fuck you all night," he muttered.

His cock was about to enter her, and she slid back to him, encouragingly. His left hand stayed locked around her slender pelvic bone, pulling her back to him, and his right snaked around front, locating the center of her, pressing her labia to one side and then the other. As evidenced by her trembling and sighing, he found the right spot, the right speed.

"Tell me how you want me, Carrie," he groaned, moving back and forth, grinding deeper, building to a steady pace with locomotive force. His belly smacked her ass.

"Oh,… too deep, Quinn," she sighed, moving away. He was long, and felt even longer from this angle. He caught her hip and pulled her back, as if she were trying to escape. Rearranging her legs with her knees together, he spread his legs wider and reflected his pumping movements off her pillowy buttocks. With her legs together, he couldn't penetrate as deeply, but could still give her a good smacking.

"Like this, then?" he asked, already sure he knew the answer.

"Yeah, like that," she said, almost sobbing, her head down and hair swaying with his rhythm.

His hand found and quickened her again, and as he heard her excitement rise, moaning into her pillow, he sped up his thrusting and raced her to the edge. They came almost together, Quinn falling forward over Carrie's back, his fingers still bringing the last few pulses out of her tight passage, her squeals buried in the bedclothes, so as not to wake Franny. They fell, back to belly, sideways onto the bed, where Quinn clutched her to him. He kissed the back of her neck, the side of it, and licked her clean-smelling sweat off of her skin, making her shudder.

"You see? I'm bad for you," he said again, breathless.

"I like it," she breathed.

Their breathing grew more shallow, and Quinn eventually reached back and folder her comforter over both of them. Carrie's last sensation before sleep was Quinn's seed, trickling out of her, and his hand, hot and huge, on her hip, staying her position on the bed like an anchor in a storm.


	20. Konfrontation

The next morning, Quinn awoke to find his eyes dazzled with a shaft of mid-morning sunlight. His ears detected the sound of giggling from the next room. He listened to the mother and daughter enjoying their morning, as Carrie switched from German to English, teaching Franny words.

"Dis?" Franny asked sweetly.

" _Das Fenster_ ," Carrie said. "Window."

"Dis?" Franny asked again.

" _Die Katze_ ," Carrie spoke quietly. "The cat. What color is he, honey?"

" _Schwarz_ , Mama. Black cat. Dis?" Franny continued to pelt Carrie with questions as Quinn listened, smiling with his eyes closed.

Quinn got up, and dressed quietly. He shuffled into the living room to see Carrie and Franny sitting together on the floor, Carrie on what he guessed was her second cup of coffee, Franny finishing up milk in a sippy cup, the two of them surrounded with an asteroid belt of small toys, books, and game pieces. Carrie was already showered and dressed, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, her brow clear and her eyes bright, her lips touched with pink gloss. She looked young, he thought. Well rested. Civilian life suited her.

"Wow," Quinn said, rubbing his forehead. "What time is it?"

"Ten A.M.," Carrie answered. "You slept for eleven hours."

He shook his head. "I'm not used to that," he said.

Carrie looked at him significantly. "I know you're not. Go have some coffee. Then take a shower, so we can go get some fresh air. It's a beautiful day."

Quinn nodded, and did as she suggested. They spent that morning at a park, watching Franny play herself silly with some other young children on a slide and a big climber. Carrie had brought a picnic lunch, including whatever she was able to scrounge from the fridge, and the rest of the Pellegrino. Quinn and Carrie sat on a blanket, sharing a few peach slices and a thick ham sandwich. A few of the earliest Spring flowers had started to bloom, and the park around their picnic ground was filled with their perfume.

"Your life is so different," he said, not even knowing what he meant.

"You mean the peace and safety? Or the boredom," she asked, amused.

"I don't know," Quinn confessed. "It's just not what I expected."

"Well, the peace and the slow pace were both hard to get used to. But we  _did_  get used to it. Franny helped," she said.

"You two come here a lot?" he asked.

"Yeah. It's the closest park. And she needs time to play outside," Carrie observed.

"Maybe you'll buy a house with a yard," Quinn speculated.

"Not likely, on my income, not over here, anyway," Carrie said.

Quinn said nothing. The limitations of what other people could afford didn't come to mind very often. He supposed that was a side effect of not expecting to live beyond the next mission.

"She's happy, though," he said. "I can tell."

"I think so," Carrie said. She reached for Quinn's hand, squeezed his wrist. "It's been hard. Her not having a father."

"You had a volunteer," he said, cheekily.

Carrie frowned. "Not the right one," she said, finally smirking a bit.

"Do you ever think of him? Brody?" Quinn asked, then immediately regretted it. He didn't want to be compared to the Marine, the guy who'd caused so much turmoil, who Carrie had traveled all over the world and taken chances for, even been shot for - by  _him_ , for Christ's sake - in trying to clear his name.

"Every day," Carrie said. "Just look at her."

"Yeah," he said, chastened. Of course she did. He was afraid to say anything else, in case he would accidentally disparage the guy, and hurt Carrie's feelings.

"But Quinn," Carrie said, and waited until she had his eye. "I thought about you every day, too."

His smile was a bit weak, but grateful.

"Carrie," he said, "I know you're just coming out of something. I probably don't have the right to ask," he said, then stopped and thought about how to phrase the next question.

"What," Carrie insisted.

"Am I the rebound? You know. To forget," he said awkwardly.

Carrie thought for a minute, then started cleaning up the picnic things. She took the empty water bottles, and got up to head for the recycling bin. Catching Quinn's eye, she finally answered, as he stood up.

"No," she said thoughtfully. "Markus was the rebound."

Quinn put down his dark shades, and smiled.

Franny, exhausted, crawled gratefully into her stroller for the ride home. They her back for a nap, and after they had her safely settled in bed, Quinn said, "I need to go out for a while."

She looked at him, her eyebrows going up. "OK. When are you coming back?" Behind her stated words, another thought echoed… " _Are_  you coming back?" But she held her tongue.

"Before dinner," he said. "I'll bring us something to eat." He tried to sound reassuring. He was just going shopping. And, he thought he'd take a moment, and message a contact.

* * *

After he'd gotten out of sight of Carrie's flat, he took out his iPhone and took it off Do Not Disturb. He thumbed a question to Rob, then hit send. As he strolled down the sunny street, he heard the pinged response, and read it:

"He's come out of it, may recover completely. TBI not extensive."

So Dale would probably live. Another miracle. A second later, another message from Rob came in:

"How is your vaca?"

"None of your business" Quinn typed back, and hit send.

The phone pinged again, the sound of another message arrival. Quinn crossed a busy street and stopped at the corner to read.

"Sounds fucking good" Rob said. Quinn smiled and didn't answer. He put the phone in his pocket.

A half a block later, he heard the message sound again. He pulled it out, prepared to send a sharp message back to Rob, to stop bugging him. But it was a different number, and was dated the previous day. From Dar Adal, he saw. The black text leapt out at him, ominous and blank of feeling.

"When are you coming back, Peter"

Quinn deleted the message, switched the phone back to Do Not Disturb, then turned it off. Though the sun was bright and the afternoon quite warm, he felt himself shudder.

* * *

Quinn had gone out to shop for himself. He had an embarrassing lack of personal effects, and not even enough decent clothes. It had been so long since he'd cared for himself that he couldn't remember what size he wore, at least not in European sizes. He stopped into a menswear shop, got himself measured, and picked out three pairs of slacks. Then he chose three new button down shirts in the sober colors he favored, gray, black, and dark blue. He'd taken the time to try them on and have them tailored: he was a tall man and more slender than ever in his life, and none of the off the rack sizes fit him well. He chose some other items, arranged for delivery to Carrie's flat, and then headed down to a large department store. He did a bit of window shopping, and then went inside.

For his own part, he just wanted a few comfortable t-shirts, some toiletries, and then he planned on walking the floor where the toys were displayed, in case there was anything for Franny. The kid had a lot of toys, and it was a small flat. So he didn't think Carrie would appreciate too much extra clutter.

It was a stretch for him to consider what a little girl would like. He watched a mother leading a young girl through the department by the hand, seemingly intent on getting the child to try on some new pants, while the child hung back and pointed at a rack of stuffed animals. Well, that helped, anyway. He decided on a purple plush unicorn, with huge eyes. He paid for it, and put the toy and receipt into the bag with his other things.

On the way down, he stepped out of the elevator on impulse, and walked through the ladies' departments. Clothes, dresses… had Carrie shopped here? If she had, what did she like? It was another kind of spying, he thought. He wished he knew her better. He knew how she dressed for work in the old days, she had been all business then. Her style had gotten more severe as she had gotten more senior. Now, he'd only seen her dressed for their date, for the park and… undressed. He smiled, and considered the lingerie section.

Then, he decided against it. He couldn't imagine what size she wore, or even how to guess. She was tiny, but she had generous breasts, and he didn't know how those delicious measurements equated into a EU size anyway. He was embarrassed to ask. Instead, he went to the perfume counter, and sniffed a few bottles. One size fits all, he thought, staring into the brightly lit cosmetics, trying to remember the exact color of Carrie's skin.

" _Kann ich Ihnen helfen, Mein herr?"_

Quinn had been so deep in reverie about Carrie, about the way her skin smelled, about her soft warmth as he held her in sleep, that he had been startled by the counter girl.

" _Ja_ ," he said, then struggled with his German. "For my girlfriend… for  _meine Freundin_ ," he emphasized, to be sure his message wasn't missed.

The girl nodded, handing him a dome shaped bottle, the perfume inside pink and the golden cap a luxurious filigree.

" _Es ist Französisch. Es riecht nach Rosen,"_  she said, then tried again. "Like roses."

"Ah," Quinn said. He held the scent card that the girl sprayed for him, and nodded at her. It reminded him of the flowers in the park they had visited that morning. "I'll take it."

He thought of the last time he'd bought perfume for a woman. It had been in Paris, in 2005. He'd been younger, and a bit besotted. He'd brought Astrid a bottle of Eau de Parfum, Chanel No. 5, not realizing that it was something of a cliché. She'd laughed in his face, said something about it being 1944. He felt his gift was rejected, and that had cooled his ardor considerably. Why hadn't anyone taught her that it was the thought that counts? He wondered if Astrid had ever traced the unraveling of anything serious between them back to that moment. Quinn doubted it - she wasn't that aware.

He decided that it was worth taking the chance again, that Carrie's feelings for him were more tender. She was certainly more considerate. She'd grown a great deal as a person since he'd left her in D.C. He wished he could say the same, but he feared that the opposite was true.

All the same. She deserved better than he could give, and he could at least try. He wanted to do something special - and she was worth the risk. He paid for the perfume, accepted it from the smiling counter girl (who eyed him appreciatively as he walked off) and left the store. It was time to go home.

* * *

He'd arrived back at Carrie's flat to a kiss and embrace, and helped her put away the groceries. Suddenly ravenous after his shopping walkabout, Quinn had shopped again at  _Mitte Meer_ , and bought not one, but two, small rotisserie chickens.

"They smelled good," he explained.

"Shopping with your stomach," Carrie laughed, and set them on the counter.

A couple of rich cheeses, a fresh loaf of bread, a bunch of broccoli rabe, and a half a pound of Irish butter were also in the bag. A head of lettuce, a bag of red pears, and two small slabs of chocolate cake, as well as a French doughnut dipped in chocolate frosting. He reminded himself to put the plush unicorn up on the dresser before giving Franny the doughnut. Little kids were messy.

"Where else did you go?" she asked him.

"You can see what I did," he said. "Shopped for some clothes, bought some dinner, and a few other things." He concealed the white department store bag behind his back, and slipped it into the master bedroom. "And what did you do with your afternoon?"

"Well," Carrie said. "I Skyped with Maggie, it was our usual meetup. She missed Franny, and likes to see her."

"Did you tell her any news?" he asked, suddenly concerned. He felt like a dark horse, like she shouldn't be telling her family about him. He didn't want to be mentioned, and in a part of his mind, thought he didn't deserve to be with her anyway.

"I did," Carrie said, making them plates of chicken. "I had to tell her. Markus and I were a thing for a long time. But that's all over now. And then, there's you," she said. She side-eyed him, to see what he thought of it. But Quinn said nothing.

She opened the fridge, and pulled out a bottle of white wine. "Open this," she instructed.

Quinn took the bottle and began rummaging around for a corkscrew. "Did you tell her about me?" he asked.

"Of course," Carrie said. "I left out the part where you snooped through the windows, though. She'd think you were a predator."

He reached over and gave her bottom an affectionate squeeze. "I am a predator," Quinn said. "Or hadn't you noticed?" He located the corkscrew and applied it enthusiastically.

"I'm hoping," Carrie said, "to see the full display of your talents over the next few weeks."

She gave him a raised eyebrow, and appeared cheerful. But the moment she said it, she made herself sad. A few weeks. Better than nothing, she told herself. She could only hope for better, but the future was so uncertain. Accepting a glass from Quinn, she toasted.

"The good life," she said. When she made eye contact with him, he looked despondent again. She kissed his cheek.

He clutched her waist for a moment, and then tried to smile. "I brought you both something," he said. Crossing over to the bedroom, he revealed the plush toy to Franny. "For you, baby," he said. Franny eyed it (and Quinn) dubiously, then ran and put her face in her mother's legs. She was still nervous around him.

"Honey, you can hold him. He's soft," Carrie said, squatting down and holding out the toy. With that, the squirt raised a shy eye to the toy, snatched it, and ran to her room with it, flinging it and herself on the toddler bed. She plowed her face into the unicorn's soft side, like a pillow, and plunged her thumb in.

"Success," Carrie said. "Say thank you!" she called into the child's bedroom.

"Tank oo," came the sweet response, after a moment.

"Now, you," Quinn said. He held out the perfume.

"Oh, wow. You didn't," Carrie said, touched. "I can't remember the last time someone bought me perfume. It might have been Dad, a graduation gift," she said wistfully. Opening the bottle, she tried some on her wrist. "I love it. Thank you. It's kind of hard to picture you shopping for it, you know."

"I know, it's weird. But seeing you again, well," he said, sounding solemn. He thought for a moment, tried to find a way to explain to her what this time had meant to him. "It's been good," was all he could come up with.

She put her arms around him. One hand held his wine glass, the other was around Carrie, and Quinn realized that the happiness around him had dispelled his sense of gloom. He hoped he could make it last.

"Later, I want to take off everything but this scent," she said. He smiled down at her, at a loss for words.

At that moment, there came a rapping at the front door. Carrie leaned back, and frowned up at Quinn. "What the hell," she said, irritated. "Just a minute," she said, marching off to the door.

Quinn left Franny rolling around on her bed, and took his wine and stepped into the kitchen, out of sight. He decided to let Carrie handle it, whatever it was. Unless he was needed, of course.

Carrie opened the door and there stood Markus, in a suit and tie with a bouquet in his arms, managing to look nervous, aloof, and fervent at the same time.

Carrie stood back, a disappointed look on her face.

"Carrie, I had to see you," he said. "You didn't answer your phone, you didn't take messages, I thought…"

"I didn't want to talk. It's been less than 48 hours since we broke up, you know? You asked if we could be friends, and I had to think about it," Carrie said. Her voice sounded strained, but strong. "And I don't think we can."

She hadn't invited him in, but Markus pushed across the threshold, the flowers gripped in his fist, and used them to open the door. He thrust them towards her.

"Carrie, please. I think we can work it out. If you only give me a second chance," he appealed. But there was an air of command under his statement, as if he expected her to give in just because he asked. His confidence was admirable, she had to admit. It was also misplaced. This was the woman who went after Abu Nazir with a chunk of pipe, without support, in an empty warehouse. Not some fainting violet.

"Markus, please," she said firmly. "When I said that I didn't feel the same, I meant it. There's no going back," she finished, and tried to close the door. But he pushed into the apartment all the way, the door hanging open behind him.

"I lost my temper," he blurted. "I was upset, and I shouldn't have called you a bitch."

Quinn had overheard everything. He stepped out of the kitchen, his hands empty but open, looming towards the front door of the apartment, and stalking towards Markus.

" _What_  did you call her?" Quinn said quietly, dangerously. She knew that tone of voice. She'd heard it right before Quinn had put a knife through Brody's hand.

Carrie sighed. Here we go, she thought, I just hope I have enough bandages, ice and Neosporin for everyone, when it's over.

Markus looked up, irritated, and evidently unaware of the potential danger. "I didn't know you had someone over, Carrie," he said.

"This is Quinn," Carrie said simply. "He's an old friend of mine."

"Well," Markus said, attempting to be bluff. "Any friend of Carrie's is a friend of mine."

Quinn had ambulated slowly towards the door, and stood in front of Markus, positioning himself carefully, and then becoming still as a golem. Markus held out his hand in a convivial fashion.

"Markus Wagner," he said, joviality thinly covering a growing nervousness. "I'm a doctor."

"Peter Quinn," Quinn replied. "I'm an assassin." Quinn's huge hand swallowed up Markus' more delicate one. Markus coughed lightly.

"That's very, um…" Markus said, pulling his hand back. "Carrie?"

"Actually, he is," Carrie said, feeling no need to dissemble. "He's my best and oldest friend. And I'm glad he's here. I need the key to my building and flat, Markus," she said, holding out her hand. He handed over the ring, without taking his eyes off Quinn.

"Want to tell me again what you called her?" Quinn said. He had stepped closer to Markus and seemed on the verge of performing a violent act.

Markus shuffled his feet, uncertain. This hadn't gone the way he pictured.

"Apologize," Quinn ordered, and stood quietly, without moving.

"I'm sorry, Carrie," Markus choked.

Carrie stepped between them, and grabbed the flowers.

"You should leave," Carrie said. As Markus backed out the door, baffled and more than a little freaked, Carrie closed the door.

Quinn still stood there, like an attack dog that was trembling to strike. She put her hand on his lower back, and eventually grabbed his wrist, pulling him back away after shutting and locking the door.

"I should see him off," Quinn said, pulling loose, walking to the window, and looking down. He watched for Markus to emerge.

"No, you shouldn't, Quinn. I don't have bail money to spare," Carrie said, a bit exasperated but also pleased with his protective reaction.

"Was he always an asshole, Carrie?" Quinn asked. It seemed to him like a reasonable question.

"No, but, things got weird," she said. "I should have broken it off sooner. Because, I mean, look," she said, holding up the bouquet, and strolling into the kitchen. Quinn, satisfied that Markus had left the building, followed after.

"After all this time," Carrie sighed, after she'd gotten Quinn settled at the table with his wine. "He still doesn't know."

"Doesn't know what," Quinn retorted, still pissed off and on guard.

Carrie walked to the trash, opened the lid with the foot pedal in, and dropped Markus' flowers into the can. She then grabbed her wine, and sat down in Quinn's lap, where he kissed her neck possessively.

"I hate daisies," she said. Quinn looked into her eyes, and chanced an infinitesimal smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely random note: the scent Quinn buys for Carrie is Guerlain Aqua Allegoria: Flora Rosa.


	21. Platzangst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Lime: Nobody thinks in terms of human beings. Governments don't. Why should we? They talk about the people and the proletariat, I talk about the suckers and the mugs - it's the same thing. They have their five-year plans, so have I.
> 
> Martins: You used to believe in God.
> 
> Harry Lime: Oh, I still do believe in God, old man. I believe in God and Mercy and all that. But the dead are happier dead. They don't miss much here, poor devils.
> 
> \- The Third Man (1949)

 

March 2017

Berlin, Germany

It was Monday morning, and Carrie was getting dressed. It turned out that neither Carrie nor Quinn had considered what would happen when Carrie had to go back to work, and Anna would show up to look after Franny.

"Oh, boy," Carrie said, her brow furrowed as she pulled on her khakis. "This will be weird. I'm sure she talked to Markus."

"Am I going to be in the way?" Quinn asked. He didn't seem enthusiastic about spending the day with the nanny in the first place, and to find out that Markus had been one of her favorite people, well, now it was even more uncomfortable.

"No, not at all," Carrie insisted. "You're my guest."

"OK," Quinn said. "But I'm not going to be at the apartment under her feet all day. I'm going to go out, see things," he said. He hoped some free time in the city would continue to clear his head. "I can walk you to work every day. And back home," he offered.

"I'd like that. But Quinn, I'm worried about you. You need to rest," she said. I know it better than you do, she thought. He slept so long and hard on Sunday night that she had a hard time waking him.

"That's true. And if I really need to, I still have the key to the flat across the street. I can use it to crash if I want to," he pointed out.

"That's handy. You should do that," Carrie said. "And later, if you're feeling up to it, maybe you'd like to spend a day or two with Franny. Alone," she said, just to be clear.

Quinn gulped. He was no babysitter. "I'm not sure. Maybe," he said. "Maybe part of a day." Maybe if he was lucky, he'd time it right. The kid used the potty, but he wasn't much of one for wiping bottoms.

Carrie seemed to get it. She smiled. "OK. Anna and Franny have their routine, anyway. And the kid likes it. You can walk me to work."

At 7:45 on the dot, the door opened, and Anna poked her head in. She looked apprehensive at first, but then saw Carrie with her coffee mug, and smiled.

" _Morgen_ ," she called. "Hallo, Franny," she said to the child, as Franny got up and wobbled to her, uttering a string of words in German and English, and giggling excitedly.

" _Javol_ ," Anna laughed, and dropped her bags. She gave Franny a hug, and then looked more dubiously at Peter, who stood.

"This is Peter Quinn. He's an old friend," Carrie said. "Quinn, this is Anna Lauber,"

"Pleased to meet you," Anna said, with a tone of voice that indicated that quite the opposite was true.

"Pleased to meet you," Quinn said, gravely offering his hand. Anna shook it, somewhat reluctantly.

"I'll just wait downstairs." Peter excused himself and started down the hall.

"That is the man," Anna said, seeming a bit overexcited. "Markus said you had a crazy man here."

Carrie frowned. "He called you, huh." Anna had the good manners to look a bit ashamed.

"Well, that's just not so. I used to work with Quinn, I've known him for years," Carrie said, defensively.

"Markus said he was an assassin," Anna said nervously.

"Oh, no," Carrie said. "Not  _assassin_. Markus must have misunderstood the word, or something. Quinn said 'analyst'. He's an analyst, he looks at data. The way I do," she lied smoothly. "He'll be here all month, in and out. So please, make him feel welcome, ok?"

"Oh," Anna said, seemingly mollified, and a bit put out that the gossip value of the situation had gone down.

Carrie sensed something else was needed to charm the nanny. She didn't want any ruffled feathers on either side.

"If you must know," Carrie said. "Mr. Quinn has just returned from a war zone. So he's something of a  _Kriegsveteran_. A war veteran. Okay? He's using this time to recover. He doesn't like to talk about it," she finished, in a confidential tone.

"I see," Anna said. "Well, he could…"

"…do with some building up, yeah," Carrie finished in unison with Anna. They laughed together, and then it was alright. Carrie got Anna and Franny sorted out with the day's snacks and chores. Then, Carrie pushed off for work with a quick smooch on Franny's cheek.

Quinn stood on the sidewalk, hat in hand. When did he take to wearing hats with brims, she wondered? On this trip, on some other? It suited him. He fit in, a European gentleman. He held his left arm towards Carrie, and she took it. Gun hand free, of course. She wondered if he was packing, and figured he probably was. They started off towards the U-Bahn station at a brisk pace.

"Everything ok?" Quinn asked. He had sensed the trepidation that Anna had been feeling.

"Yeah, it's fine," Carrie said, with a wry smile. "She thinks you're a killer. No problem."

Quinn gave an inscrutable smile. "I'll try not to disappoint," he said.

"You better be careful, Quinn," she said. "German gun laws are pretty strict. And if you wanted to apply for a gun license, you'd have to pass a psych exam." She looked askance at Quinn, hoping he'd take the message.

Quinn snorted. "No point in even applying, then," he said. "I'm clearly a maniac."

Carrie smiled to herself, but at the same time, her stomach fell. There was more truth to that statement than she would like. Quinn needed to heal. And he was in need of some big adjustments in perspective, if he'd ever want to return to anything like normal life. She hoped the time together, and their bond, would help him see that.

* * *

Carrie's workday seemed to drag. She wondered what Quinn was up to, and as 2:00 PM approached, she starting clock-watching. When she walked out of the front door at 4:30 PM, he was standing across the street, leaning against a light pole, looking intently at her.

"Hey," she said casually, as if she wasn't excited to see him. "How was your day?"

"It was good. Had a pub lunch. Went to see the Brandenburg Gate and the Wall. I've been here before, but never really looked around," he said.

"Nice."

"What do you want to do tonight?" Quinn asked, as they approached the U-bahn station.

Carrie said nothing, just gave him a wicked look.

"Besides that," Quinn said, smiling.

"Have dinner. Put Franny to bed, maybe read her a story," Carrie said. "It's Monday night, Quinn. Normal life. Working people tend to make early nights of it."

He hadn't thought of that. It had been a long time since the schedule he kept was dictated by the day of the week, or the needs of others.

"How about a movie?" he asked.

"I have Netflix," she said. "What are you thinking?"

"Something classic. Maybe a black and white film noir."

"Like? Do tell, Quinn. What's a classic movie?" Markus had been partial to tripe like Beverly Hills Cop 2, and had an unhealthy fixation with the Lethal Weapon movies. Carrie had high hopes that Quinn's taste was better, but then, that wouldn't take much. He hadn't named a film yet, and already she suspected it was.

"I'm thinking Maltese Falcon, the Third Man, something like that," he said.

Carrie sighed, and smiled to herself. "Anything like that sounds good. I'll let you pick,"

Arms around each other's waists, they made their way home.

Nanny Anna had made a fabulous, rich, schnitzel dish and roasted potatoes. She'd given Carrie a raised-eyebrow look as she left, but Carrie gave her a perfectly friendly smile, pretending not to snap in the least to the suggestive look. She knew the truth, of course, that Quinn had come back into her life only after she and Markus had broken it off. And that it really was a continuation of a long-ago love affair that never really got off the ground. But she figured it didn't appear that way to Anna. She hoped it wouldn't alienate the nanny too much, as she really was a nice woman. Really, though, it was none of her business.

After dinner, Quinn sat on the floor and played with Franny. At nearly three years of age, she was becoming quite a thoughtful little chatterbox. She seemed to enjoy pushing toy cars around as much as playing with dolls. Quinn helped Franny built a house of blocks and watched her push her toy cars into it. Carrie watched from the kitchen. Listening to the quiet conversation between the man and the child, it struck her that he probably hadn't spent time with a kid, any kid, since he last played with Franny at her Dad's wake. Not even his own kid, she thought sadly. That ship had sailed. It was good to see Quinn with a little color in his cheeks, doing some things that weren't centered around death and intrigue.

* * *

The movie was over and the credit crawl had started, as Carrie and Quinn snuggled on the couch. Quinn had streamed The Third Man, a fabulous film that he had seen only twice before. They had both been enthralled by the story of the black marketer Harry Lime and his purported death, but Carrie, either from comfort, warmth, exhaustion, or all three, had fallen asleep in Quinn's arms before the end. He had watched the final scene by himself, as the character of Anna Schmidt approaches Holly Martins, the protagonist, then ignores him, and walks past and away without looking back. He shivered. Her heart was broken, he thought. And she'd simply had enough.

He kissed Carrie's head. She didn't stir. Quinn used the remote control to flip over to BBC world service, and for the next hour, watched, raptly taking in the details of the latest conflict in Afghanistan, the uprising and rebellion in Pakistan. The Iranian nuclear crisis. The constant conflict in Somalia with Al-Shabab. He hadn't checked his messages in two days. His iPhone was a hot brick in his pocket. A horrible, suffocating feeling of dread rose up inside him.

Quinn snapped the TV off, and lay there a while in the dark silence, listening to Carrie's even breathing. Eventually, he crawled out from behind her sleeping form, and lifted her gently. He carried her into the bedroom and lay her on the bed as softly as possible. She didn't wake. He wondered what it was like to feel that safe. Her life was so very different now. As he changed and washed up, she stirred.

"Oh, hey," she said. "I missed the end."

"You're better off," Quinn said quietly from the bathroom. "It was a sad ending."


	22. Sturmwarnung

It was Friday night. It had been a quiet week, with a pattern settling over them that became pleasurably predictable after the first day. Quinn would get ready with Carrie in the morning, and while she got the nanny situated, he'd wait on the walk outside, twirling his hat on his finger, until she appeared. Then he'd walk her to work. During the day, Quinn would do a walkabout, see the city. Two of the four days, he admitted, he'd gone back to the old flat and zorked out for a good long nap – on Wednesday of that week, he admitted to sleeping from 11 AM until it was time to walk back to Carrie's work.

"I don't think I've slept that much during the day since I was last injured," he said.

"And, when was that?" Carrie asked, as they swerved arm-in-arm on the sidewalk to dodge a pink-mohawked crew of teenagers.

"A while back," Quinn said, evasive.

"Uh-huh," Carrie said. "And  _that_  was…"

"Um," Quinn dissembled. "I was injured in Yemen," he said. "There was a fight. Some asshole knew more Krav Maga than I expected."

"Right," she said. "And what happened to the asshole?"

Quinn shook his head, and said nothing. Similar layers of silence lay over the topic of what Quinn had been doing, where he had gone. Carrie was not explicitly avoiding the subject – but Quinn was.

Instead, he acted curious about her work. "What are you doing up there?" he'd asked, nodding back towards the office.

"Can't tell you. I'd have to kill you," she said, smiling.

"So you still have a clearance. Good," he said, smiling back.

"It's nothing extreme, Quinn. But if there are security issues that affect the larger German cities or the EU as a whole, my group wants a leg up on them. As does the German government," she stated resolutely.

"A long way from chasing down Haqqani," Quinn said.

"Fuck him," Carrie said, bitterly. "Eventually the worm will turn, and he'll get his. I just don't want any more Americans dying in that shithole."

Quinn shook his head, and didn't respond at first. Eventually, he muttered "me either," but it was more under his breath than anything else.

* * *

Franny was asleep, after a quiet restaurant meal at Schnitzelei, the little café on the on the Röntgenstrasse. Carrie and Quinn were sitting on the couch in her apartment, supposedly trading foot massages, but really, Quinn had gone first and didn't seem to be willing to relinquish Carrie's foot. He was enthralled with the delicate shape and soft texture, not to mention the noises he got her to make when he hit a really good spot.

"Close Encounters of the Third Kind," he said.

"Really?" Carrie said. "That's the first movie you remember?

"My mom had just turned on HBO. It was one of the first things I ever remember watching on cable."

"Wow."

"What about you? First TV memory?" Quinn said.

"I remember watching Sesame Street, I think," she admitted. "Mom flaked out a lot, and Dad would show TV to me while he did advanced math homework with Maggie. She was a bookworm. But in the end, we both got straight A's," she said.

"I'm not surprised," Quinn said.

"OK," Quinn said, massaging a particularly deep knot behind the ball of Carrie's foot, which made her sigh and squirm with pleasure. "Here's one. Favorite dessert."

"Ooh, tough one. Crème brulee, I'd have to say," Carrie mused. "Yours?"

"Oh," Quinn sighed. "Anything homemade, really. Cookies. Something that makes the house smell good."

"Alright," Carrie said. "That makes you easy to please." He gave her a winningly crooked smile.

"I like to think so," he said.

"Quinn, this is the easy stuff," Carrie said.

"Yeah," he admitted, looking down at her toes.

"My turn, right?" she asked.

"Yes. Your turn," he said, sounding a bit apprehensive.

"When I was in Missouri… why did you leave?"

His eyes shifted up to hers, guiltily, then away, appearing to gaze into a long distance. He shook his head and said nothing, continuing to focus intently on the foot massage he was giving her.

"I can try to understand, but only if you talk to me, Quinn." Carrie said. "Should I start? Tell you why I went to Missouri?"

That was easier for him, evidently, because he could answer. "To see your Mom," he said. "I know it was important. It was all fucked up, right? And you have a half-brother you didn't even know about."

"Tim. Yeah. Haven't heard from them or seen them since. But I learned what I needed to know. I told you that night, that I'd just fuck it up. Right?"

"That's what you said," Quinn replied shortly.

"Well, I was sure of it. Fucking condition I have. All of my life." Shaking her head, she pulled her foot away, and sat up.

"Go on," Quinn said.

"I always thought my mother left my father because he was bipolar. Nuts, you know, impossible to live with," Carrie said thoughtfully. "I figured that my condition made it impossible for anyone to love me."

Quinn snorted. "If anyone here is unlovable, it isn't you," he said derisively. She shot him a serious look.

"Anyway. I doubted I could be in a stable, healthy relationship with anyone, because of my issues," she said.

"That's bullshit," Quinn clipped defensively.

"Yeah," she said. "But try unlearning the habits of a lifetime in just a few days."

She got up, crossed the room, paced around the room once, restless. She plopped down again, at the far end of the couch, her legs curled up beneath her.

"You know what I found out? My mother left my father because she was unable to be loyal to him. It was all about  _her_ , her fucking weakness. Not about his disease," Carrie finished.

"Fuck, Carrie."

"You know, I was coming back to see you," she said. Quinn's facial expression went from guilty to downright hangdog.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"Stop apologizing, I'm not done. I got back to the hotel, and your fucking phone was…"

"Yeah," Quinn admitted. "I had already gone. Turned it off. It was stupid," he stated.

"I called Adal. Nothing. I went to Adal's  _house_ , and he stonewalled me. And there was more to it than that," she said, hesitating.

"Adal didn't know how to contact me. We had already gone dark, probably," Quinn said.

Carrie let the silence fall, and waited until Quinn was focused on her.

"Never do anything like that again, Quinn," she said. "It was the most horrible feeling I've ever had. Almost worse than finding out Dad died." Her eyes welled up. He could see the shine of tears about to spill in the gloom.

"I should have waited," he said desolately.

"So why didn't you?" she asked again.

Quinn got up, and turned away. He headed for the window. He pulled the curtain back and looked out. "Cold night," he said vaguely. "Moon is up."

Carrie said nothing. She couldn't tell if he was working up to something, or just sidestepping the issue. The silence between them dragged out. The only sound was street noise filtering in through the closed windows. A police siren sounded in a distant neighborhood, then tapered off and was gone. Quinn adjusted the curtains so they were slightly open, and moonlight streamed into the room through the gap. He turned and seemed to align himself so that he was partly in shadow, partly illuminated, ghostlike. Something about his expression implied the number of deadly acts he had committed since she'd last seen him. She thought she'd been the only one that changed, but no. She had been changed by her civilian life, by her hard work in therapy, and by her love for her daughter. Quinn had been changed by his choices, their separation, and every day and undertaking in between. She shivered to think what he had done, and where he had been.

"Before I came here last week," he said slowly. "I didn't  _feel_  anything for a very long time. I've made a practice of not feeling. Of not remembering. I have made it a custom to forget the things that hurt."

He slumped in the moonlight, grimacing. "I've tried to forget. But I couldn't. I couldn't forget you. I don't even know where to start. How to talk," he said. His hand came up and gripped his arm where the last bullet wound was nearly healed. "But I think you were the only reason… that I'm still human."

He came back to her on the couch, and sat down near, but not touching. Again, he seemed as shy about touching her as he had been before they made contact, before they were intimate.

"I'm too fucked up, Carrie," he said decisively. "I don't think I can go back."

"You're not, Quinn. As long as you're alive, there's a way back," she encouraged.

When his eyes shifted up to her, they brimmed with anguish, as if all the time, the operations, the agony between had stopped up any possible path to contentment. Dejected, struggling for words, Quinn finally answered her.

"I can't talk about what I feel, Carrie. I can only show you," he said. Reaching for her shoulder, he pulled her closer.

"Quinn," Carrie said, "If I can fucking get better, so can you," she said.

He shook his head, slowly. He bent, and his lips grazed her neck. "It doesn't matter," he whispered. "The only thing I can remember feeling is the need to see you again. That's how I ended up in the apartment across the street," he confessed. He pulled her to her feet and held her close.

"You fucking ghoul, Quinn," Carrie said, almost crying at the way he had lost heart. "Staring in my fucking windows. You're lucky I care for you so much." She nearly cried as she doubled up a fist and pounded him on the back- but gently.

"You need to get out of the Agency. Like you said you wanted to," Carrie reminded, her cheek pressed into his chest.

Quinn said nothing, just kissed the top of her head.

"I'm kind of fucked, I think," he said eventually. "I know you want to help, and I think you might be the only person who can," he confessed, his voice cracking. "But I can't talk about what I've done. I don't want...  _that_... in my life anymore. But I don't know how to stop, because I don't know what else I'd do."

"OK," Carrie soothed. "So we don't talk right now. Not tonight. But sometime soon. I can help you. You can get out, and do something different. I did it, and if  _I_  fucking did it,  _you_  can," she concluded, sounding encouraging, and a bit angry. She stroked up and down his back, soothing him.

He held her hand, looked down and her, and kissed the back of it, a touchingly gallant gesture that made her tremble.

"Don't make me talk anymore tonight, Carrie. I just want to touch you," He slid his fingers over her hair, tucked it behind her ear. Carrie's eyes welled with empathy. A fucking black hole. She knew what it felt like to crawl out of one. She wondered if she could throw Quinn a life preserver in the time they had - however long that was.

"Promise me that I won't wake up in the morning to find you gone," she said, concerned.

"I promise," Quinn said, somber, dark as the night outside.

She turned and walked into the bedroom, taking off her blouse as she went. For God's sake, she thought, let me help him find some light.

Behind her, Quinn closed the curtains, and followed Carrie into the bedroom. He pushed the door shut until it latched.


	23. Menschliche Waffe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those who have crossed  
> With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom  
> Remember us-if at all-not as lost  
> Violent souls, but only  
> As the hollow men  
> The stuffed men.
> 
> -T.S. Eliot

After midnight, Carrie lay sleeping on her side, her arm curving easily under the pillow, her breathing deep and serene. Quinn leaned over, unable to sleep even after long day and the lovemaking. He stroked her hair back from her face and kissed her cheek, then got up out of the bed carefully, so as not to disturb her. He pulled on boxers and padded back out of the bedroom, silently pacing off the confines of the dark apartment.

The back window of Carrie and Franny's little flat looked out of the kitchen over a secluded courtyard, empty at this time of year of anything but the earliest sprouting leaves. Quinn stopped there and stared out. His eyes roved over the windows of neighboring apartments, the sturdy brick building, and up to the sky, where the clouds had thickened up and were obscuring the moon. He stood a moment, reflecting on the evening. His time with Carrie was a brief, enlightening respite from his own tortured mental dialog. It was as if contact with her – her loving acceptance – somehow funneled the dark chamber inside of him into something else. When he made love to Carrie, her desire and hunger created something of an inner ceasefire. He still felt awkward in the peace and quiet of her life with Franny – not the least bit domestic, just a bit of a hanger-on – but at least he wasn't numb, or suffering. The question was, who the hell was he when they were not around?

Quinn left the kitchen, and on passing the door to Franny's room, heard a jingle bell sound. Was the kid awake? Cautiously, he opened the door a bit wider and peered over at the child's bed. She wasn't awake, quite the opposite. But she had wiggled in her sleep until she was uncovered completely, bare toes sticking over the side, tossing around until she had knocked a stuffed toy horse onto the floor. The toy horse had a jingle bell around its neck. He stealthily picked it up, returned it to Franny's side, and covered the kid up with her bedsheet and blanket. She wrapped her arm around the stuffie, and resettled herself. It must be nice, he thought. It must be nice to have someone looking out for you. Quinn smiled down at her. Brody's hair, that was for sure. And his eye color. But Carrie's rosebud mouth, and her cheekbones. Nice facial structure, he thought. And smart. Lucky kid, at least in the maternal looks department. He left her room and closed the door to a crack, the way she liked.

Quinn continued his nighttime wanderings over at the living room window, moving the new, thicker curtains aside so he could look out across over at the apartment window across the street. He wondered if he'd done it again – unthinkingly caused more hurt than any good he'd ever done. He should have stayed in the other apartment, watching her, then gone back to his empty killer's life. There was no way he belonged here, in this normalcy. He was just disturbing the peace.

Carrie's question had really kicked a door open. Quinn had gotten to the point where he had felt numb about everything, unless he was within one of his angst-ridden fantasies about Carrie. Seeing her, though. Finding out she still cared. Finding out, for God's sake, that she had cared all along - and that he had walked away from something good. And now, her question. Why had he left? She was in Missouri, she said she'd be back in a couple of days. As it was, she had told him, she had driven the entire distance in one night, as she was so anxious to find him, to find Adal, to get hold of him and tell him what she'd learned. And he'd missed it. If he thought about it too much, it would drive him mad.

So why had he left? There were lots of answers, of course. Some facile, and some more convincing. But the deepest reason of all was something that was hard to name. He had left because he assumed her answer was "no", that was one. His feelings for Carrie had opened a door in his heart, and created more vulnerability than he could stand – and he had to slam it closed again. For a guy who had bravely assaulted Haqqani's entire group with only his service weapon and one other Marine, he certainly felt like a coward now. And, he had left because Rob and the team needed him – Rob had implied that they'd be much less successful without him. No doubt that was true, and he  _had_  been a pivotal part of the operation. It had been a close shave, and he was sure his actions had saved some lives. But only at a cost to Carrie. And to himself.

He turned the deeper reasons over and over in his mind, like a rusty coin. Truly, he had gone back because that is what he always did. He had gone back because he didn't know what else to do. He had gone back because the call was so deep, bone deep. He had no way to explain it. The thing he was best at – the thing he felt born to do - required a suspension of pity and conscience that was obliterating his soul. But what else was there? He tried to see outside that life, into a new situation. But there was only fog. He shuddered.

Quinn shut the curtains, and going into Carrie's spotless refrigerator, rustled up a cold Beck's. He opened it as quietly as possible, and going to the hook by the door, found his iPhone in the pocket of his coat. He sat on the couch, activated the phone, and went through all his new texts and emails, one by one. He sipped at the beer, and his expression went blank as he read. The lines on his forehead became drawn in the screen's light as he paged through.

Texts from Rob, Tom, Dara Adal. Subject matter of Anbar Province, Afghanistan, Iran, Yemen. Plans, questions, future Ops, and the new administration's war on terror, part  _deux_. President Jeb Bush had meant it when he'd said, "Game on," in his inaugural address. He was going to use any weapons at his disposal, secret or otherwise, to topple what he considered unacceptable regimes in the Middle East. Quinn's mind reeled. He finished the last half of the beer in a few swallows, and turned the phone display off. Setting it on the coffee table, he went into the kitchen and stood the empty beer bottle on the counter with the other empties. Then he went back to his jacket, and pulled a small key ring from an inner pocket.

From under the couch in the living room, Quinn pulled the locked gun case. He sat on the edge of the couch, and as quietly as possible, he transferred the case to the coffee table in front of him. Conscious of every little sound at this late hour, he carefully unlocked the case and snapped it open. He lifted the lid, and surveyed the contents within.

Who gets what they want, just because they want it, Quinn wondered. His experience of the world had taught him: hardly anyone; hardly ever. Things were tough all over. He had performed his assigned tasks like a cyborg for so long, never wondering if his actions were making things better or worse. He remembered a time when he could tell the difference, and Carrie seemingly couldn't. He had tried to reach out to her, to prevent her from becoming so deeply ensnared in a life of intrigue and manipulation that she lost sight of the costs. He hadn't succeeded, and the Islamabad tour had ended up in a bloodbath. So what was he doing in Carrie Mathison's home now, polluting her life with his carcass, touching her, while concealing all his hidden, rotten spaces? Quinn remembered that he used to feel like one of the good guys. But it seemed like a long time ago.

He moved aside the upper level that contained the disassembled Glock and the Beretta, and pulled from beneath a small revolver – the Smith and Wesson M&P340, internal hammer, nice and light -the pistol of last resort. He sat back on the couch, and popping the cylinder out, he spun it around and around, meditatively – the operative's version of the worry stone.

He wondered if he should leave. He had meant it when he said he wasn't good for Carrie. He didn't think he was. But, he had promised. He had promised that when she woke up, he'd be there. And there was the slightest shred of a chance in his mind that he could somehow turn these feelings loose, expiate all his hovering guilt, and find his way through this slough of internal misery and into a new life. Carrie had done it. Maybe he could too.

But there was a lot to process. Memories he wished he could erase. He spun the cylinder, looking down at the six black holes, and suddenly understood Russian roulette. When you felt as empty as the other five chambers, the one with the bullet in it didn't seem so bad.

The beer was wearing off. He was getting tired. Tired was good. He had been considering a round of Russian roulette or two. Now he was too tired to walk across the street to the other apartment, or consider the consequences if he and the single full chamber were to make an acquaintance.

He had gotten this far. He had promises to keep. Maybe everything wasn't black after all. Maybe it was charcoal gray. Maybe it could get better.

He laid his head back on the couch, revolver still in hand, and rested the gun on his belly. After the cold metal had warmed against his body, he stopped feeling the weight. He went to sleep sitting up, and then, the dreams began.

* * *

Quinn saw the back of Tom's head. And Rob's. Everyone was keyed up. It was a night Op, and they were going in soon.

The complex had a couple of ISIL warlords holed up, in a compound west of the ISIL-controlled city of Ramadi, halfway to Albu Nimr. Like most of the hemi-civilized outposts in the fertile crescent, the compound bordered a river village, and Quinn and his team had come in on the edge of the water, and worked their way into it by night, planning a surgical strike for 2:00 AM – the hour guards are at their least observant, or even sleeping, and activity and response are at a low point. Quinn, the team lead, gave a whispered signal on the comm, and they moved out.

From there, the dream was fragmented, hazy. There was blood, and there was dust, someone shot a goat, oh for Christ's sake use your cover, a guard awakened and noticed them, and Rob and Quinn were pelted with pebbles and filth as the bullets hit the ground next to them. There were muffled cries and muzzle flashes as his team took out the sentries. They entered the compound central building through the inner courtyard, and heard the screams of the alerted family from within, a blown Op from the start, and the only way to get out and complete their objective would be to kill them, kill them all. Quinn gritted his teeth and gripped his weapon, as one by one his team made tactical entries and neutralized the targets. No, kicked down doors and killed the people inside. They made their way up the stairs, and took out the ISIL targets. There was one unexplored room left.

There she was again, in his dream. She was about 19 and heavily pregnant, and had been sleeping on a pallet on the floor, with a crib in the opposite corner. Wailing came from the crib. She fell to her knees, held both arms out straight, supplicating, and cried out in Arabic. Quinn's grip turned aside at the final moment, moving from a kill shot to a shoot-to-wound, and the bullet from his weapon pierced her upper arm. The girl screamed, fell forward, her hijab covering her face, blood pouring out of the hole his firearm had punched in her dress. The baby in the crib went on crying. He felt Rob grab his kevlar vest from behind.

"Come on, asshole, we're done upstairs. Time to extract the fuck out of here," he panted.

Quinn looked again at the girl, who writhed and howled on the dirty floor. Then, he demolished any feeling about it, per his usual protocol. Fuck it. Them or us. He turned, sand grinding between his clenched teeth.

The dream went hazy and dark. It was later, his team was gone. His consciousness floated above the girl's body, still and pale, her pregnancy a sagging swelling under her gown. A disembodied wraith, Quinn saw Carrie's face in the crumped hijab. In the crib, Franny screamed and screamed. A bright light shone into his eyes, the wrath of God, perhaps. He began to scream himself.

* * *

Carrie woke in the middle of the night, and immediately felt the absence of Quinn's sleeping body in the bed. He had usually found a way to stay in contact with her as they'd slept – even if it was just a hand pressed into her back, or a foot touching. His side of the bed was cold, and she started up, suddenly afraid.

She quickly pulled on pajama pants and a t-shirt, then moved to the bedroom door. Opening it, she peered around, and in the benighted living room, spotted the silhouette of Quinn's head on the couch. She almost said his name, but then bit her tongue. She walked noiselessly around to the front of the couch, to stand in front of him, and from there was able to make out the sleeping Quinn, his hand loosely around a pistol, as well as the open gun case and the phone. Christ.

She closed Franny's door completely, after a quick peek at the sleeping child. Then, she strode to the wall switch that controlled the full-strength ceiling lamp, and clicked it on, the intense light causing her to squint. Quinn startled at the sudden brightness, looking around in a muddled fashion, as he sat up, clutching the handgun. Then he saw Carrie, and sank back uncomfortably, his free hand scrubbing at his forehead.

"Quinn, what the fuck," she said baldly.

He sighed, looked towards the windows, and didn't answer.

When she spoke again, he heard the air of command in her voice, something he hadn't heard since her station chief days. "Are you a danger to yourself?" she demanded.

"No," Quinn replied. Though, he wasn't really so sure.

"Are you a danger to me and Franny?" she asked crossly.

"No!" he said, indignant.

"Well, then," she said. "Disassemble your weapons, lock the case, and put it on the shelf in my closet. Store the keys in another location and do  _not_  leave your fucking guns where my child can touch them. What the fuck is  _wrong_  with you?"

He sat up and did as she asked. As he closed the case, he said, "I'm sorry, Carrie. I told you I was fucked up."

She stood there, arms folded and glowering, until he had done as she asked. Then, feeling deflated and exhausted, he came back to sit on the couch. He couldn't meet her eyes, and looked towards the windows again.

Carrie regarded him. The hollows under his eyes were so deep that they looked like bruises. The scars rising up around the latest bullet wound on his shoulder appeared scarlet and deeply grooved in the harsh light. Finally, she felt more pity than anger, and taking deep breaths, she went into the kitchen, and turned on the hood light above the stove, which shed a milder light. Then she came back into the living room, and turning off the ceiling light, came to sit next to Quinn. He sat forward, slumped, his elbows on his knees and face buried in his hands. She put her hand in the middle of his back, and rubbed up and down as if to warm him. They sat without speaking for a few minutes, while their eyes adjusted.

"Quinn," Carrie said. "This is going to go one of two ways."

He sat back and looked at her. Her hand hadn't left his back, and he was glad. It was tethering him to Earth.

"Either you're going to get out, and be part of our lives. If you do that, we can help you get past all this. I did," she said.

She let that sink in. He watched her miserably.

"Or, you're going to go back. And if you do, you're going to kill and get killed. I can't have that in my life. Or my daughter's life. I can't sit and wait for you to go on Ops, then come and visit for a month, only to disappear again. I can't live with that. That uncertainty," she said.

He looked down. "I want to be with you. But I don't know how."

"I can help you, Quinn. Some of it, you have to do yourself. But you'd have us. You said it once yourself, we get out  _together_ ," Carrie said soothingly. He looked at her and saw that her eyes were filled with tears.

"What the hell do you see in me?" he asked, feeling worthless, despondent. How could she view him as anything but a burden?

"The only person who really knew me," she said, and pulled him close.

He shook his head. "Every time I get out of your sight, I feel myself getting sucked back in," he said.

"So, don't get out of my sight," she said. Squeezing him tighter.

Quinn opened his mouth and said something he hadn't said since he was 12 years old, watching the movie "Halloween" all by himself at night.

"I'm scared," he whispered.

"Don't be," she said. "I've done this. You can do it. You can feel better, Quinn."

They sat for a few minutes with the sleeping child nearby. After a while, she encouraged him to come back to bed. They laid down together, and Quinn pulled her near. He held her tightly and did not let go for the rest of the night. Eventually, they both slept, and there were no more dreams.


	24. Zwischenspiel

Carrie was up first with Franny, who never slept in. She made the child a plate of breakfast snacks and a pot of coffee for herself. She pondered the next couple of weeks, wondering what she should do. She had hardly used any vacation since she came to Germany, and her worries about Quinn and his state of mind had skyrocketed since she'd found him on the couch, sleeping with his gun the night before. She shivered, thinking of it again. She didn't know if that had been a true death wish, a parasuicidal gesture, or just Black Ops weirdness, a specialist going back to what he knew best for some kind of perverse comfort. It was worrisome. She didn't want him completely alone during the week. She felt like they should be making the most of every day. Still, he had to take care of himself at some point. They'd have to talk about it. That, and a whole lot else.

Franny sat in her booster at the small kitchen table, munching on her cereal bar. As Carrie was pouring herself a cup of coffee, the kid eyed her, and asked out of the clear blue:

"Mama, weh Markus?"

Oh, shit, thought Carrie. Of course, she misses him. However wrong he might have been for Carrie, he had been good to her child, and a big part of her life. And Carrie had just cut that off. She sighed, and took a deep breath.

"Honey, Markus can't come over anymore. I'm sorry," she said, feeling like a deceiver. But how much more could you explain to a three and a half year old?

Franny didn't answer, just looked down at her plate. Carrie held her breath. Was this going to be a potential tantrum? But no, Franny seemed to have already lost interest.

"More grapes, Mama," she said. Carrie blew out a relieved breath.

"Sure, honey," she said. Kids. You just never knew.

It was a sunny Saturday and shaping up to be a beautiful one. Carrie got Franny dressed, and showered and dressed herself, while Quinn slept on, oblivious to the noises of toys banging and dishes clattering. Finally, at 10:00 AM, Carrie was tired of waiting. Taking an ice-cold half-cup of water into the bedroom, she yanked back the covers. Disregarding her own sheets and blankets, she tossed the water at Quinn's head with a grin.

"Time to wake up, sunshine," she said as Quinn bolted upright, spluttering.

"What the hell," he complained, giving her a dirty look. Then he grabbed Carrie around the waist and tackled her back into bed. She squealed and laughed as he pinned her. "You don't want to start that game," Quinn said as they wrestled about.

"No, I don't. You're right," she laughed as she tried to kick him off. He quickly had her contained, and he took advantage of the situation by kissing her. Then he sat back and released her, looking much less on edge than he had. She sat up too, and straightened her clothing.

"I had to," Carrie said. "You were sleeping forever. And we want to go out."

Quinn gave a wan smile. "Anything you say," he said.

"That's more like it. Franny and I want to show you something beautiful," Carrie said. Sitting around wasn't going to fix anything, and they could all use some fresh air.

Quinn showered and dressed, and the three headed for the U-bahn, where Carrie guided them towards the Charlottenburg Castle.

In the castle gardens, Franny ran ahead, enjoying the feeling of the breeze in her hair, and encouraged by the large, well-groomed walkways between the formal beds. Carrie had decided to forgo the stroller, and she and Quinn ambled side by side behind the delighted child, the daypack slung over Carrie's shoulder.

"She's getting big," Quinn observed. "She knows so many words."

"Yeah, never shuts up or stops asking questions," Carrie said.

"Uh-huh," Quinn said, looking sidelong at Carrie. He didn't think it'd be necessary to say anything to point out that Franny's inquisitive nature was the very image of Carrie. Carrie caught his glance, and smiled crookedly.

"Don't say it," she said, looking down at their feet.

They walked on a few more strides, enjoying the extraordinary beauty of the organized formal beds, a great swirl of colored gravel and manicured lawn.

"How'd you do it," Quinn said, gazing out.

"How'd I do what," Carrie asked, turning to keep an eye on Franny. The kid was running back towards them; arms open to the wind, eyes half-closed.

"You got out," Quinn said. "I think I understand why. What I don't get is how. What made you decide on Berlin?"

"I don't know, exactly. A fresh start. Someplace completely different. I wanted it to be just Franny and me. And then, there was your friend, Astrid," Carrie said. Her statement was completely devoid of the acid that she had previously used in pronouncing Astrid's name, and Quinn's eyebrows went up at the statement.

"Astrid?" he asked, feeling somewhat stupid. How did he not know this shit?

"Yeah, she opened some doors for me. This job, I don't think I'd have it without her. It's about right for me, at least right now. Being a single Mom. I keep my hand in, haven't lost touch with the intel community. But no danger, and no travel," she said placidly. Franny had wrapped her arms around Carrie's middle and started begging for snacks. Carrie pulled out a red Dorati bag and gave the kid a handful of snack crackers.

Quinn shook his head, and said nothing, hoping she'd continue.

"I asked for her help, Quinn. And I feel lucky to have gotten it," she said. A bitter feeling returned, as she remembered the pain and upheaval around that decision. "Once I felt like I couldn't stay in, it wasn't that hard to get out. It felt like the only decision I could make," she finished.

"I didn't know," Quinn said. "I can understand it, now."

"Yeah," Carrie said. "It's a long time ago. Feels like it, anyway. We've moved on."

Franny had walked on ahead, nibbling on the crackers as she went, raining a trail of crumbs, Quinn and Carrie slowly following behind, like Hansel and Gretel.

"You asked me once," Carrie said carefully, "if we could get out together."

Quinn sauntered on, looking at his shoes, and said nothing.

"Well," she continued. "I'm out. And that leaves you. If you get out, we can give it a try."

Quinn looked away and mumbled something. Then looked back down at the ground.

Carrie frowned. "What was that?" she asked insistently.

"I said," He sighed, "That I don't have any idea what the hell I'd do."

"Quinn, you could be good at lots of things." She put her hand on his lower back as they walked along.

"I was never good at anything except for, you know. Unless I was working with you," he said thoughtfully.

Carrie said, "That's the way your past looks. You don't have to keep going that direction. Now's your chance. Try something else," she said. She gave him an encouraging look. He pulled her closer, and they continued on, arms around each other.

"All I know for sure is," Carrie said seriously, "Shit like last night, that can't happen. You need to pull it together. What the fuck was that, anyway?" She squinted up at him in the bright sunlight, but with his shades down, Quinn was inscrutable.

"Dunno," he said tersely, and declined to elaborate further. So much for talking it out.

They had caught up to Franny, and were now at the edge of the river. Carrie caught Franny's arm and turned her around, so they faced the way they had come. Looking back, the whole formal garden lay between them and the castle proper, tall and baroque, up on a green grassy hill, looking majestic and untouchable.

"Look, honey. See the castle?"

" _Das Schloss,_ Mama," Franny corrected.

"Ja," Carrie answered, amused.

Quinn walked away from Carrie, a short distance, looking out over the water and downstream. He was quite a sight, dressed in some of the new clothes that had been delivered that week, a navy button down and gray slacks. Sometime during the previous week, he'd had a fresh haircut. The overall look was quite sophisticated, and his physique had filled out a bit in the week of relaxation and generous food. He glanced over at her, amused, as if he were inclined ask her for a few crackers, so he could feed the ducks or pigeons. But his smile conveyed a real enjoyment of Carrie's company and Franny's innocence.

The self-contained exterior and enigmatic personality of her longtime companion and lover did not lend itself to the comprehension of others. The only thing she knew how to do was to be herself, and as open and honest as she ever was, and hope that what she said made him feel safer, more connected to her, and perhaps even hopeful about his future. What else could she do? While she watched, he pulled out his iPhone, and checked messages. Who the hell was messaging him? And about what? It made her nervous and a little sick.

Carrie waited until he had finished what he was doing, then called him over.

"Quinn. Do you want to go inside?" she asked. "It's pretty amazing."

Quinn shook his head; put the phone into his pocket. He walked over to Carrie, his slow, hipshot pace recalling the cool agent she knew from the very first day.

"It's pretty beautiful, right out here," he said. He pulled Carrie closer, and kissed her. Franny hung on both their knees, pulling on Carrie's shirt.

"Mama, Mama, Mama?" she asked, but Quinn didn't let go, didn't stop kissing her. God, but it felt good, it felt right. Finally, he relinquished her lips. "Mama?" Franny continued, bugging them.

"Yeah, honey. Mama likes Mister Peter," she said, looking at Quinn. His eyes crinkled in one of his veiled smiles.

Franny wandered off across the grass, and Carrie and Quinn followed her, their hands joined.

* * *

The child had exhausted herself after the morning's touring, and Carrie had to carry her back home. She got heavy fast, and Quinn, said, "Here, let me," and lifted the sleeping girl onto his hip, her head lolling on his shoulder. As they strode down the Goethestrasse from the U-bahn station, Carrie had put her hand on Quinn's back, and the warmth of her hand and the weight of the sleeping child's head had made him feel warm in a way he couldn't remember experiencing.

It was odd, this sense of belonging. She really wanted him. She had asked him to get out, to start over. This wasn't what he had expected. But then, he'd never expected a hard-core station chief who had dealt with Khan, with Lockhart, with any of the rest of the power-brokers, to simply resign and walk away. He guessed he had something to do with that. Not everything, but something, he thought with a deep, abiding shame. There was something else, though. Something he couldn't see. Still, the feeling of the sleeping child and a loving woman – of all people, Carrie – it was beyond amazing. He couldn't even picture her being domestic. But here she was – as she described herself, a single Mom. And seemingly happy about it. He supposed that anything could happen. He smiled. Truly though, he thought to himself. I must be dreaming. I'm going to wake up. This is just too good to be true. It took a minute for that thought to sink in. Then, he frowned behind the dark glasses.

When they arrived home, Quinn lay Franny down in her bed, where she turned on her stomach and clutched at her purple unicorn. Franny slept all afternoon, while Carrie and Quinn spent time behind the locked bedroom door, killing their pain the way they knew best, the way they had to. Quinn's hand slid over Carrie's mouth as they finished, so as not to wake Franny. After, they both slept as the afternoon wore on into evening, golden light spilling between the new living room curtains.


	25. Wahrheit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> C/Q, Netflix, chocolate chip cookies, snuggling, I mean, what could go wrong? Really?

They had spent the rest of the weekend together, the three of them. Resting, talking. Carrie making cookies and feeding Quinn fresh, hot ones right off the cookie sheet. He licked the melted chocolate off her fingers, and only Franny's wakefulness had delayed the bedroom session which  _that_  would have immediately inspired. They caught up on a couple of movies, late at night on Netflix, some of Quinn's favorite classics (White Heat, a Cagney film she had not seen), some which they both enjoyed (Peter Jackson's Hobbit films) and one for which Carrie cursed herself for suggesting (American Sniper). Quinn shrugged it off, but she had squirmed the whole time.

They went again to her local park and playground, to get Franny some outdoor time. It was a beautiful weekend of Spring weather, but late Sunday, a cold front moved in, and brought rain. The BBC telecaster predicted highs of 12-14 C across the continent that evening, which Quinn mentally translated to 54 or so Fahrenheit.

Carrie's hand had squeezed his shoulder as he watched her compact flat-screen. "Snuggling weather," she had said, hopefully. She casually looked over his shoulder and tried to catch a glimpse of his iPhone, which he had been checking again. He noticed, and abruptly put it away.

"All weather is snuggling weather," he said. He pulled her into his lap, realizing that his current existence with Carrie and Franny felt so seamless, comfortable as a warm bath, that he couldn't imagine when or how it would change. How could he break this peace? Leave her presence, leave her to... some other guy? Or alone? It felt like heresy to suggest it. Leaving, moving on, going back… back to what? How would he bring that up?

Instead, he kissed her earlobe, and asked what she was cooking in there. "It smells good," he said.

"Cooking," she said, rolling her eyes. "Mondamin  _Mehlschwitze_ , and if you don't know, that and a little hamburger and macaroni and you get the equivalent of German Hamburger Helper."

Quinn smiled tightly. He came close to laughing, and his eyes crinkled up.

"What?!" Carrie asked, mildly exasperated. "The kid likes it," she said, by way of excuses.

"It's funny," Quinn said, setting her on her feet, and standing up, to look down into her eyes.

"What, my cooking? I know it is. I need Anna, or we'd starve. Except for salad and cookies," she said thoughtfully.

"No, not your cooking. I mean, I never expected you to be, well…" He stopped, searched for the right words. "For everything to feel so normal."

"Quinn, I left all the Agency BS behind. Once you do that, 'normal' is all there is. And I'm grateful for it," she finished, guardedly.

He looked into the kitchen. "I know you are. I am too. Come on, let's see how it tastes. I'll wash the dishes." He patted her bottom affectionately, as they moved off.

The food was good, as it turned out. And Sunday ended as peacefully as it had begun.

* * *

Monday came.

Carrie and Quinn had woken early, as it was a workday. Carrie's alarm went off at six-thirty, and she slipped out of bed, trying to move quietly, and let Quinn sleep in. His rest hadn't been quite so comatose nor as long, at least not in the last few days. He seemed better fed and more robust than seemed possible 10 days ago. As she stood at the edge of the bed, and pulled on a tank top, she felt his hand reach out and clutch her wrist, warm and strong.

"Call in sick," he suggested. She hadn't done that yet, not during his visit. Carrie smiled.

"Hmm. You think my co-workers won't see through that?"

"Come on. How often do you call in sick?" Quinn asked, knowing her prior workaholic habits.

"Well, not often, for me," she said. "For the kid, well," she sighed, "cold season is just ending. Not since January, I guess."

"Tell Anna to come for Franny. Then, come with me," he said, suddenly feeling an urgent need to be with her today, to not let her out of his sight. All his premonitions, worries, feelings about the future, his agonies of worrying about how and when to leave were coming to a fever pitch. He felt his anxieties climb and his self-control let go a little. He felt like he'd blink, and she'd be gone, a mirage replaced by a sandy desert, Arabic mutterings around him, darkness, filth, and the shriek of small munitions. He shuddered. But then blinked his eyes hard, and there she was, golden hair hanging frowsy and unbrushed – beautiful – in the morning light.

Quinn didn't say any of it, but Carrie caught his mood. She looked at him with candor, silent for a moment, then quietly stated, "Alright."

She texted work, then got in the shower. By 7:15, Anna had arrived and Franny was well settled in. She smiled cheerfully at Carrie but squinted at Quinn as they left, Peter shutting the door behind them, his fedora in hand. He pulled a black suede leather jacket over his shoulders that she hadn't seen before. He started down the stairs, then stopped at a landing, and turned and waited for her to catch up, after she locked the flat door behind them.

"Anna doesn't like me," he stated flatly.

"She doesn't  _not_  like you," Carrie said, hopefully. "You just replaced someone she  _really_  liked."

He shook his head. They started down the stairs together again. "Doesn't matter," he said. But it  _did_  matter, at least a little bit. He felt himself wanting to fit in, to be a little bit normal, not the black sheep, black operative, what have you. How could someone like him fit into "normal" life if he couldn't even get a farewell smile from the nanny? Maybe we need a new nanny, he thought darkly. Then, realizing he had just unconsciously used the pronoun "we", he shook his head, and shook it off.

They arrived at ground level, and stepped out onto the sidewalk into a chilly breeze. Light rain slanted down from the slate-gray sky.

"Where do you want to go, Quinn? It's cold," Carrie said, doubling the lapels of her coat across her throat with leather-gloved hands.

Typical laconic Quinn, he didn't say anything, just grabbed her wrist and led her across the street to the other apartment he had rented. He was so glad he had kept the key, and the short term lease. He unlocked the front, and led her up the stairs. Pushing open the door to the flat, Carrie felt like she could see her breath inside.

"Do I want to know what we're doing here?" she asked, with a one-sided smile, her gloved hands folded under her chin, arms tucked to conserve warmth.

"The same thing we always do," he said, locking the door behind him, then turning to her, eyes flashing. "Only this time, we can make some noise."

"Oh," Carrie sighed, walking to him slowly. "That sounds good. But Quinn…" he was already kissing his way down to her shirt collar.

"What," he muttered. Quinn was intent on his work of removing her clothing as methodically as possible.

"Turn up the fucking heat," she complained, kicking off her shoes.

"That's what I'm  _doing_ ," he said wickedly. Urging her into the bedroom, he kicked the door shut behind them.

* * *

After, they lay with their heads together on the pillow, the morning light now completely muted by a heavy, overcast sky. The rain picked up, and they heard it splattering off the windows, and the wind periodically moaning in the eaves. Quinn pulled Carrie close and held her tighter. She felt like she was nodding off slightly, so relaxed had she become on what had begun to feel like Quinn's permanent vacation. His personality, formerly so even, then so volatile, and finally vulnerable, had calmed and begun to fit with hers. He hadn't made any huge strides or adjustments, not in any tangible way. But she had finally begun to feel that he wasn't going to disappear like a puff of smoke.

In her lassitude, she heard him murmur in her ear, his breath moving her hair. She shoved it behind her ear, and turned to him.

"Hm?" she said sleepily.

"What would I do," he said. He didn't look miserable, or hopeless. He didn't sound bereft. He sounded curious, and that was good.

"If you got out," she said.

Quinn looked at the ceiling, and rolled back, his arm cocked behind his head.

"Yeah," he said.

"Well, I had no idea what I'd do, if I got out. But I knew I couldn't stay in. That's where it started," she said.

"Was that my fault?" Quinn asked, guiltily.

"No, not entirely. But your disappearing on that fucking mission didn't help," she said, her accusing tone making it clear that his pushing off with Rob and the crew had been a good part of it.

His blue eyes turned back down to her, now seeing through and questing for answers.

"Then what? What lit the fire, Carrie? I thought you were in for life," Quinn stated. Like me, he thought, sickly, then shoved the thought away.

"Franny, for one. She needed a parent who was there for her. Brody was a memory. My Dad was dead. And I couldn't let Maggie raise her alone. It wasn't fair. And it wasn't right," she said. "And…"

Quinn rubbed her back. "And, what?"

Carrie fell silent, and looked out the window. Sitting up, she slid the sheer curtain open a few inches, and looked out at the rain, running in cold rivulets down the old, wavy glass.

"Nice, a window box," she said. "If you extend your lease and stay here through the summer, you can plant some flowers up here. Franny and I can help you."

Quinn reached around her, and twitched the curtain shut again, cutting off Carrie's  _non sequitur_ as well. "You're naked, babe. Keep the curtains closed. Perverts, you know?"

She turned to him, bemused but still uncomfortable. She might as well out with it.

"It's finally warm enough to get out of bed. Do you have any coffee in this place?"

"Only Nescafe," Quinn admitted. "The landlady left it for me. And UH treated milk. I think she thought she was doing me a favor," he said.

"Geez," Carrie said. "I can't believe such an enlightened, literate people settle for that stuff, as if it were real coffee." She got up, wrapped the blanket around herself, denuding Quinn in the process. He covered himself with his hands, and sat up as well.

"Hey," he said.

"I like you in goosebumps. Make me some of that shitty fake coffee, and we can talk. I have some things to tell you," she said. He felt the words drop ominously at the end, a note of despair in her voice. He wanted to demand answers right now. But then held himself back. A time and place for everything, and the lady wanted hot coffee. He pulled on his jocks and walked into the tiny kitchen to plug in the electric kettle.

* * *

Later, on the frayed couch in the living room, the two sat wrapped in a quilt that went around them both, another blanket over Carrie's feet, as the aged steam heating wheezed and clunked, pushing the room slowly up to the set temperature of 20 C. Carrie snuggled in comfortably, her coffee steaming in the chilly air, Quinn's arm around her shoulders.

"The day you left," she said. "That was a horrible day."

"Yeah," he said shortly, barely breathing the word. Not a day went by that he hadn't considered his handling of it with regret.

"Do you remember, I said on the phone, on our last call, that I'd see you in a few days?"

"Yeah, I remember," Quinn said. Truth be told, he remembered every word they'd said to each other, going over it in his mind, wondering if he'd judged wrong, missed something. He remembered too, every word Rob had brought back to him after he'd delivered Quinn's letters. He thought for sure she'd read them, and come right away when he was shipped back to the states. Instead, Rob had stayed true to his word, and delivered her harsh, final message. He had taken it to heart. At least, until the last mission.

"It didn't take me a few days to get back. I was in DC the next day, " she said.

"Christ, you missed me by twelve hours," he muttered, looking sideways at Carrie, then down. The  _fuck_.

"No doubt. First I called you. Your phone was disconnected already…"

Quinn shook his head dejectedly, his eyes closed.

"Then I called Dar Adal. He didn't answer. I left him a raving voice mail, then got in the car and drove all night, sped like a maniac. I stopped somewhere on I-44 to get a huge Coke and some cigarettes. I kept going, got to Adal's house the following afternoon. I pounded on his fucking door…"

"I was already gone, afternoon next day, I was already…"

"I know," Carrie snapped. "Adal told me you had gone dark. Had to self extract. That I couldn't reach you, and neither could he," she said.

"All of that was true," Quinn said, regret evident on his face, the dusting of silver hair at his temples and crow's feet at the corners of his eyes more obvious in the cool morning light. It made him appear older, more fragile.

"I thought he was holding out, fucking with me," she said. "I wanted to talk to you. So bad, Quinn. I needed to see you. So I threatened him with what I had seen."

Quinn sipped his instant and looked at her quizzically. "And? What had you seen?" he asked.

Carrie sighed.

"The day you tried to blow up Haqqani. The day I talked you down..." she started.

Quinn leaned over, kissed her bare shoulder. "I saw you, on top the vehicle. You pulled your headscarf off. The second I made you, I knew the whole thing was balls-up," he sighed. "I'm still pissed at you, you know. Putting yourself on top of a bomb like that."

"Don't start," Carrie said, irritated. "I'm still pissed at you, going off the way you did. They would have killed you."

"Well, you prevented that," he said, both pleased and irritated.

She side-eyed him, and waited for him to settle.

"I was at the back of the crowd. You were gone, and I almost lost my shit and went for Haqqani myself… do you remember I mentioned that, right after Dad's funeral?"

"Of course, I remember. I still can't believe how impulsive you were…" Quinn said.

"Yeah, well. Khan stopped me. And then he pointed something out. He said to look in the back of the Jeep, where Haqqani was sitting."

Quinn waited, suddenly apprehensive. "And?" he said.

"And," Carrie finished. "Dar Adal was in the back of the Jeep. With Haqqani."

Quinn was silent. Stricken, almost. "What the fuck," he said softly.

"Exactly," Carrie said. "What the fuck. What the fuck was he doing there? Why was Dar Adal in bed with Haqqani? Minutes before you were about to whack him out, your fearless leader was in the backseat making nice with the King of Terror," she finished. "And I didn't think Saul knew any of that."

"I knew…" Quinn started, embarrassed. "I knew our attention turned elsewhere. Adal said we'd have to back out of Pakistan for a while. The jobs on the Syria, Iraq border, the Yemen job, all these other terrorism hot spots, they were to take out cells, and we were supposed to… let the Haqqani situation cool out for a while. I didn't have too many feelings about it. Or anything, really. At that point." he said, swallowing. He gulped the instant coffee, against a sudden attack of dry mouth. "There would have been plenty to see, if I cared to understand. But I stopped looking."

"Down the fucking rabbit hole," Carrie rubbing his shoulder briskly.

Quinn looked at his coffee, square in the middle of his lap. "Yeah," was all he could come up with. "Yeah. It's fucked."

"Yeah, it is," Carrie said. After a moment, she continued.

"Like I said. I arrived back at Adal's place. And I asked to see you. And when Adal refused, I threatened him. I said, I was going to tell Saul that he was in the car with Haqqani. And the Washington Post and New York Times as well. And  _sneered_  at me, the motherfucker. Then he gestured me out onto the back patio."

Quinn looked at her, his eyes soft, and finally seeing. Seeing something clearly. Seeing Carrie's anger, her regret, his own betrayal and hers, his own long-reaching analytic mind finally taking it all in. "Yeah. You saw someone out there you didn't want to see," he said.

Carrie looked straight ahead, feeling ill at reliving the bleak memory.

"Saul," she said, simply. She set her empty coffee cup on the floor, and sat back hard.

Quinn pulled the blanket around both of them, and Carrie's head lay on his shoulder. He didn't know what to say. He thought, swallowed, and then tried something simple.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

She rolled her head towards him, her eyes filling. "Quinn, I couldn't. Before, at Dad's funeral, I still trusted Saul. I ran it by him, and he said not to tell you, you'd go nuts," she said.

"Fucker had that right," Quinn snarled.

"And then, I wanted to tell you. So much. But you were gone. And, that was it for me. For the Agency. I was done," she said, an air of finality around her words. She wiped at her eyes with the back of one hand.

"I'm sorry," he said, knowing how weak it sounded.

Sorry. A tiny word, supposed to somehow cover her years of grief and regret, their betrayal, her loss of a mentor and father figure, her loss of him - Christ, she had wanted him, needed him - and on top of it all, his own tremendous self-denial. He knew what he was getting into, so he thought - he told himself it didn't matter, and he didn't care. For himself, he guessed that was true. At the time. But for Carrie, the results were ugly. And it mattered to him. He was sickened.

"Now you know," she said. "Why I got out. Why I wouldn't go back. Why your leaving was so hard for me, in every way. I felt like I couldn't go on with it, but you bought back in," she finished.

"I guess I did," he said, sadly.

They held each other quietly. There was no more to say, not for the moment.

Finally, after some time, Quinn spoke again, repeating his earlier question. "So. What do I do?"

She looked at him. He was asking about life outside the Agency, looking for ideas, for hope, for, who knew what? She could only try to help and hope that something stuck.

"I don't know, Quinn. But if you stick around, you can brainstorm. With me. I can vouch for you. You're…." she smiled.

Helplessly, he smiled back. "I'm what?"

"You're reliable," she said. And laughed.

He snuggled her, held her close. "You smell good, Mathison. Let me take you out to lunch," he said.

"Yeah, a cute guy gave me this perfume. Let's go get a bite, and we can talk about him."


	26. Zukunft

They had lunch at a local café, and even in the early afternoon, it was a bit cool to eat out on the sidewalk.  Nonetheless, Carrie had insisted, because she swore that the bright sunshine was good for depression. “Regulates your circadian rhythm,” she said. “Along with everything else, I have Seasonal Affective Disorder.  This helps,” she had insisted. 

They sat across from each other at the small café table, Quinn relaxed but alert, his eyes perennially scanning the street and sidewalks behind the charcoal shades, his hand looped around Carrie’s wrist.  Her other hand curled around a steaming cup, she nodded to the aproned waiter who came to take their plates away.

          “ _Danke_ ,” she said to the waiter, when he returned with the coffee urn.  The waiter refilled her cup and loped off.

          “Firearms instructor,” Carrie said.

          Quinn thought for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “I can’t see it.”

          “I think you’d be a really good teacher,” Carrie said.  “And firearms are something that you know a lot about.”

          “Eh,” Quinn said, non-committal.

          A moment of quiet between them, while they both thought.

          “Law Enforcement?” Carrie suggested.

          “How, Carrie,” Quinn said dubiously, “How could I pass a background check for that?”

          Carrie shook her head.  “No, you’re right.  It would take some doing. Um, private security?”

          Quinn said nothing for a bit. 

          “Maybe,” he said finally. “It would take, I don’t know.  Some background rearrangement.”

          “All big changes do,” Carrie said.  “Do you think this was easy for me? Letting go of… all that?  Becoming a regular person, finding a job that didn’t require sending in drone strikes?”

          “No, I know it wasn’t easy.  But you’re different, Carrie. With all my shit…”

          He stopped.

          “What?”  She was becoming exasperated.  There had to be something.

          He looked at her seriously, and reached over to take her other hand.

          “I still haven’t resigned from the job, you know.  Every day, I get texts from Dar.  From Rob.  ‘When are you coming back?’  ‘We have more work for you.’  This latest one, well…”

          He looked up at her, and didn’t finish.  He knew Carrie so well – he knew when she was concerned, when she was angry, when she was going to pursue something single-mindedly.  The look on her face was fear.  He couldn’t speak at first.

          The alarm could be heard in Carrie’s voice, though she was straining for control. “What, Quinn?  Tell me.”

          He took his hand away from her wrist, and jammed it into his pocket.

          “ _What is it_?  Are you going back?  What _latest one_?” she asked, the questions piling up, one after another.

          “Well, I...” Quinn said.

          “What are they asking you for?  Come on, you have to tell me!”

          Quinn took out his phone, and swiped it open.  Looking down at the screen, he spoke quietly, for Carrie’s ears only.

          “I’m not supposed to be talking about any of this.  So I can’t really tell you.  But let me see…  what I _can_ tell you,”

          Carrie sighed quickly, exasperated, while he paged through text messages.

          “There’s a guy.  A guy the US would really like to go away. A guy that you and I have… personal reasons for wanting to go away,” he said, meaningfully.

          “Jesus,” Carrie said.  He had to mean Haqqani.  Who else?

          “Yeah.  This guy, he was in power for a while.  We backed off of him for some reason, and let him keep his little empire,” Quinn stated.

          “I know,” she said disgustedly. 

          “And then he got in deep with the tribal chiefs.  He did some more… bad things.  Got in with another crowd, and they said they’d help him get more power.  And keep it,” Quinn finished.

          “No shit,” Carrie said. “I’ve had eyes on… that guy… too, I think,” she said.

          “Yeah, well, I get word that he’s no longer responding in whatever way he use to respond. He can't be controlled or bargained with, and we’ve always known he wasn’t one of the good guys.  Which, as you know, is a huge fucking understatement…”

          Carrie looked down and to the side, at the pavement. Out of all the deaths in Islamabad during that tour, Fara’s death had seemed the most cruel, the most unfair. 

          “Yeah, some understatement,” Carrie said, and blinked away tears. 

          “Well, our information indicates that there might be a very good window coming up.  To get that guy out of power,” Quinn finished. 

          “And…” she said, reaching for his hand.

          “And that’s why I keep getting texts and calls.  I’ve been ignoring them, Carrie.  But I don’t know if I can do that much longer.  I don’t know,” he said.   

          She looked at him steadily. He put his phone away, and took both her hands again.  She waited for him to speak.

          “This whole month… has been like a dream.  I wake up next to you, and I can’t believe it’s really happening. I touch you, and it’s the best I’ve ever felt.  You don’t know what it’s been like, the last few years,” Quinn said quietly, his eyes downcast.

          “You… you could tell me,” Carrie suggested.

          “You don’t know what it’s like,” Quinn repeated in a monotone.  “And I don’t think I want you to know.  But all that faded, when I came back to find you.”

          She looked steadily at Quinn, and waited.  A moment later he found his voice, and continued.

          “Every minute I spend with you feels like borrowed time. I don’t want to spend one second of it reliving that shit. It was a fucking nightmare from start to finish,” he said.

          “OK, Quinn. But you can walk away from all that.  We could have the rest of our lives to talk about it.  Or not,” she said judiciously.

          “Borrowed time,” he said again. “First I’d need to decide to go on this last job or not.  There are a lot of reasons why... it’s not an easy decision.”

          “I know it isn’t,” Carrie said miserably.

          “And, depending on that decision, and the outcome… then I’d get out.  To see if this is all a dream, or if I can find… some other kind of life.  With you.  But first, I’d have to _process_ out.  I’ve been through that before, you know.  Almost to the end,” he said.

          “I know,” her tone, empty, regretful.  “I know why you didn’t get out, back then. I pulled you back in, didn’t I?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

          “There were reasons.  I used to tell myself there were lots of reasons I didn’t get out, before I went to Islamabad.  But I can be honest with myself now.  And with you.  I didn’t get out then, because you said you needed me.”

          Taking off his shades, his eyes caught her gaze, and held it.  He said nothing more.

          “Oh, God, I’m sorry, Quinn.  All I can say is, I was different then.”

          “I know that.  So was I,” he said.

          The waiter returned with the check.  Quinn insisted on paying it, after which they stood up, bundled their coats, and walked off arm-in-arm down theGuerickestraße.

* * *

 

          They strolled without talking for a while, just taking it all in.  Carrie finally spoke, after they had walked several blocks to the east.

          “Thanks for lunch,” she said, feeling the need to break the silence.

          “My pleasure.”

          Another block went by before Quinn asked a question, this time in a lighter tone of voice, though to Carrie’s ears, the lightness forced.   

          “Well, what should we do with the rest of your sick day?”

          “Hmm.  Well, we should walk off this lunch.  And we’re right near the _Landwehrkanal_ , a fork of the River Spree.  We could walk straight down it until we get to the Tiergarten. It’s about a half-hour walk,” Carrie suggested.

          “OK,” Quinn said agreeably. 

          It took them slightly longer than that, their path winding around the Technical University, to end at a busy crosswalk over the B5.  Quinn grabbed Carrie’s wrist protectively as they crossed, keeping an eye out over the stoplight and the speeding trucks and cars.  Carrie smiled, but tried to pull her arm free all the same.

          “Hey, you don’t have to lead me.  I’m not Franny,” she said, pretending more annoyance than she actually felt.

          At that moment, Quinn pulled her back from the bike lane, where a cyclist whizzed by, barely missing Carrie, her crossbody bag swinging out, as Quinn’s grip on her arm stopped her momentum. The cyclist dinged his bell after the fact, calling a lame apology over his shoulder.

          “Right,” he said brightly.  “You’re not.  But you’re still vertically challenged,” Quinn said, smirking.

          “Ha, ha, very funny,” Carrie rejoined.  When they reached the sidewalk and Quinn released her arm, she swatted his butt sharply, which only made his grin bigger.

* * *

 

          At the Tiergarten, Carrie picked the first path that would take them away from the main streets.  Quinn followed gamely, as she walked on, decisively leading them towards one of the main trails, which was paved.  The meandering trail eventually led to an imposing gray granite memorial, with tall columns gently curved around a central focus point.  An enormous statue of a soldier rose above a golden hammer and sickle in the front center.

          Quinn stopped in his tracks, and took it in.  Several words came to mind, but the only one to escape his mouth was, “Really?”

          “Yeah, really,” Carrie said, catching up with his thought process. “Soviet memorial.  This place, the Tiergarten, it has quite a history.”

          They sat close to each other on the steps of the memorial. Quinn’s wrapped his arm around Carrie’s waist as she spoke.

          “For a long time, it was a hunting area.  A deer preserve for the royalty, going all the way back to the 1500’s, if you can believe that.  The area was used as a botanical garden, a zoo, the Prussians built some roads and trails and re-designed it to be appealing.  There’s a memorial to Beethoven and Mozart here, from that period. But the Third Reich…” she said.

          “I’ve heard about what they did. But I’ve never seen this place.  Hitler moved in across the street, right?”

          “Yeah,” Carrie said.  “In a manner of speaking. Hitler’s plan was to turn this park – this peaceful place, with its monuments to German culture - into the center of his new capital.  He was going renovate all of Berlin, make it into the ideal city.  There were a lot of projects planned.”

          “And all that went to hell,” Quinn observed.

          “It did. Before the war was over, thousands of trees in the part were cut down. They used the area for farmland.  All the bridges were broken, the river filled with silt, all the statues were turned over… it was a devastation.  Then the first thing the Russians did when they took over the city, was build this thing behind us.  1945,” she said, gesturing at the center column over her shoulder.

          “War sucks,” Quinn observed.

          “Yeah,” Carrie said.  “There’s always collateral damage.”

          Quinn looked stood up, and looked bleakly at the memorial. "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing," he said, looking up at the statue

          "Who said that?" Carrie asked.  "Disraeli?"

          “No, it was Edmund Burke.  Can we go somewhere else now?”

          Carrie came to her feet. “Sure,” she said. 

          They walked on, side by side, holding hands occasionally, moving through the winding trails under a canopy of sheltering trees.  They left the subject of war alone as if it were radioactive, and for a while, only commented on the beauty of the spring day, the chill in the air, the coming of the evening, and what they would do when they got home to Franny.  Emerging from the shady woods, they moved farther east down John Foster Dulles Allee, and finally turned North towards the Chancellery, where they came to a bench outside the Bundestag, where Carrie plopped down.

          “Enough walking, already,” she said.  “My feet need a break.”

          “We saw a lot, though,” Quinn said, sitting down next to her.

          “Yeah,” Carrie said cautiously. “This was an important day.”

          Quinn said nothing for a minute, just put his arm around her.

          “Quinn,” Carrie said.  “Are you going back?”

          “I don’t know,” Quinn said, a despondent air entering his voice.  “I need to figure it out.  Soon.”

         “You can’t just disappear again.  I can’t live with that,” Carrie said.  When Quinn looked up at her, he saw tears standing in the corners of her eyes again.

          “I know,” Quinn said. 

          They looked in the direction of the Chancellery building, away across the square from their bench.

          “Bush, Haqqani, Gabriel, Cameron… Do you think any form of Government is ultimately good?” Carrie said. 

          “Beats anarchy,” Quinn said shortly.

          “Sometimes, I’m not so sure,” Carrie said.  She stood. “Come on,” she urged Quinn, heading for the U-bahn.

          “Are we in a hurry?” Quinn said.

          “If we move fast, we have a few hours to warm up before we have to go home to Anna and Franny,” Carrie said.  “To warm up in _your_ flat, I mean.” 

          Quinn stood quickly and gestured towards the station with his arm. “After you,” he said, and smiled.

          Leaving the bright sunlight for the coolness of the underground station, Carrie felt Quinn’s warm hand on her lower back.  Making the most of time, she thought.  That’s what it’s about. That’s all I can be sure of, for now.

          Minding the gap, Carrie and Quinn stepped onto their train. 


	27. Traurigkeit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can make a place for you. I can help, Quinn. But you can’t keep going to war, and hoping that peace will happen by accident.”

It had taken Carrie all of five seconds to figure out that Quinn was leaving. He wasn’t up and dressed early to shop, or to take Franny on a walk. He was dressed to embark on another mission, she could even see it in the aloof way he leaned on the kitchen wall.

          Carrie had arisen early, and Franny still slept. Quinn’s side of the bed was empty and cold. She hoped he wasn’t on the couch, sleeping with his revolver again. A quick look at the living room determined that he wasn’t. Immediately, she turned into the kitchen, blinking in the bright morning sunlight, and found Quinn, standing fully dressed, looking down over the garden below. He had a black jacket on, the same one he’d been wearing when he had turned up the month before, haunting the apartment across the street like the spook he was. She spoke the words bleakly, no life left in her, having seen his intention.

          “You have to be kidding.”

          He didn’t answer, but turned his head to make eye contact. His gaze was like tempered steel, his mouth tight.

          “No,” he answered finally.

          Carrie sighed. She had sensed it coming for at least a week, but hoped she’d somehow talk him out of it, love him out of it.

          “You weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye, were you?”

          He walked closer, and took her in his arms. “No,” he mumbled into the top of her head.

          They held each other tightly without speaking. Then, Quinn let go, and took one step back.

          “Why? Why now? We could be so good together,” Carrie said. She was containing herself, with effort, but her lower lip trembled.

          “I don’t fit in here. Can’t you see that?”

          “You do fit. You fit with me,” she said.

          “With you, yeah. But Peter Quinn can never just quit the Agency, and hold down a regular job in Germany. There’s nothing for me to do. Not the way I am,” he said. He walked to the kitchen table, and sat down.

          “So, you ship out, you go after Haqqani, and you get killed. And then I get to miss you for the rest of my life, is that the plan?”

          He waited for her to sit down opposite, then took a deep breath and tried to formulate an answer. “Haqqani is not going to kill me. Quite the opposite. And then, I get out. But I can’t just stay here. There’s no place for me,” he said, a pleading tone entering his voice.

          He was begging for understanding, and doing the only thing he knew. She got that. But it hurt, and she couldn’t see how he’d avoid death, one more time, then one more. It was challenging the odds over and over, and eventually, even the luckiest gambler would crap out.

          “I can make a place for you. I can help, Quinn. But you can’t keep going to war, and hoping that peace will happen by accident.”

          “I know that,” Quinn said.

          The stared at each other across the table, neither willing to budge. At a true impasse, neither wanted to leave the discussion, or walk out on a bad note. But Carrie felt sick to her stomach. She was only postponing the inevitable.

          “Ok, then,” she said. “Kiss me goodbye.”

          “Carrie,” Quinn said, stepping close and pulling her to her feet. “Win or lose, this is my last mission.”

          Her eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t bear to answer. He bent to kiss her, his lips gliding over hers with painful tenderness, the sensation of a fateful goodbye passing through her, despair held in check, as he softly explored her mouth one last time.  Finally, Quinn stood away from Carrie, and grabbing his gun case and duffel, walked to the door.

          “This hurts me,” Quinn said, his voice breaking quietly. “More than you know.”

          “ _I know_ ,” Carrie insisted. “Come back, ok? Come back alive. We can move anywhere, do anything.”

          “I will. I want to. Try not to worry,” he said. He attempted a more lighthearted farewell, cocking a two-fingered salute at her as she held the door open for him.

          She searched her vocabulary for the right words, but they didn’t come. He gave her a last, sober glance, tears working up in his eyes, but not falling.  He was already stuffing his emotions down deep, ready for the mission.

          He took a few steps down the staircase, and then turned back for a last look.

          “Don’t give up on me,” he said roughly. Then, he stepped lightly down the stairs, and disappeared from Carrie’s sight. She fought the urge to chase him down, and seize him for one more kiss, one more embrace. But what good would it do? He was leaving. 

          She closed the apartment door, went to the window, and sure enough, Quinn was down there, standing on the sidewalk below.  He stood looking up at Carrie, face pale, eyes sunken with black circles she hadn’t seen in weeks, his hair charmingly disordered, as always. He raised a hand in farewell, and stood staring at her, as she raised her hand in return. She placed her palm against the smoothness of the window, watching her breath steam the cool glass into a fog, fighting back tears the whole while.

          Quinn dropped his hand, and walked across the street. He dropped an envelope into the lockbox for the other apartment, presumably turning in the last month’s rent and the keys. Then he headed down the sidewalk towards the U-bahn station without looking back.

          Carrie watched him until his tall, dark figure disappeared from view.  Suddenly frantic to say it, to have him know it, Carrie pulled out her iPhone and opened the text app.  She thumbed in a three word message as fast as she could.  God, why hadn't she said it, and said it often?  It was certainly true, and had been for a long time.

          "I love you," she wrote, pressing "send" quickly.  But as had happened two and a half years before, the message bounced.  Number not available. She was too late, again.  All she could do was hope she had said it, said it enough, and hope he knew.  

          All her sorrow and heartbreak stoically contained, she sat on the couch, watching the angle of the sun change direction through the curtains, until Franny awoke. Pulling the child into her lap, she finally allowed herself to cry.


	28. Sternschnuppe

_June 2017_

 

“Ah, Carrie.  So good to see you,” Dr. von Haller said, smiling.

Carrie had spent the previous month in turmoil, ceaselessly thinking about Quinn, his location and his safety.  She had started to harbor so much obsessive thought that it was disturbing her sleep, and intruding on her daily work.  She couldn't set it aside.  She knew she had to see Johanna and care for herself, for Franny's sake, if not for her own.  She wasn't sure if it would help, but after a couple of years as doctor and patient, Carrie knew one thing for sure: talking to Johanna never made things worse.

The doctor gave Carrie a hug of welcome, and hung her jacket on the hook behind the office door, next to her own.  She brewed tiny cups of steaming espresso for them both.  After inviting Carrie to sit, she dutifully examined pictures of Franny.  Having not seen each other for some months, they exchanged pleasantries, and Johanna shared a new photo of her own son, which was shining from a digital photo display on the doctor’s desk.

“Fourteen years of age,” Johanna said, “And now he will not eat anything but pizza.”

“Homemade, at least, right?” Carrie asked, smiling.

“ _Ach_ , only frozen, from the box.  _Mein Gott_.”

“He’s a handsome boy.”

“Thank you,” the doctor said, once again inviting Carrie to sit. “But you did not make an appointment to catch up on old times, I’m sure?”

“No,” Carrie said.  “I’m having trouble… sleeping.”

Johanna nodded. “Your medication, the dosages, you’ve not changed them?”

“No, they’re the same.”

“You haven’t been drinking, adding other medication? It can bother your sleep, to stop these.”

“No, not a drop.  And I’ve not taken anything that wasn’t prescribed.”

Johanna, no stranger to tragedy, sensed the air of misery about her returning patient. “Well, then.  What _has_ changed?”

Carrie’s face began to crumple. “Oh, God, Johanna.  Just about everything.”

Dr. von Haller held out the Kleenex box.  She must buy it in bulk for the office, Carrie thought, with all the crying that goes on in here.  She took one and swiped at her nose.

“You had better tell me the whole story, then,” suggested the doctor, and she leaned back to listen.

Carrie went back in her mind, back to the evening she and Marcus had called it quits.  Dr. von Haller had always sensed that Carrie wasn’t going to be happy with someone as dull as Marcus, though she was too politic to be that blunt.  She knew Carrie needed someone who understood her past, as well as being able to support her in the present.  So Johanna reacted without surprise as Carrie related the story of the breakup. 

“I felt awful, because he’d intended to propose marriage that night,” Carrie said.

“You could not have known this. And better to be alone, rather than spend thirty years with the wrong person.”

“I know,” Carrie sighed.  "It was painful. But I’m glad I broke it off.  _He_ wanted _me_ , for certain.  But there was always something missing, some _chemistry_ I needed, but I never felt it with him.”

“It is sad,” Johanna said carefully.  “But surely, you’ve learned something from this?”

“I’ve learned that Marcus wasn’t right for me.  But… someone else might be.  Right on the heels of this breakup, I mean, the very same night, someone… came back into my life. Someone I never thought I’d get to see again.”

Carrie’s story came to a halt, when she got to the part about Quinn’s letters, which she’d read before the breakup, and his arrival, along with his spying, set up with his surveillance equipment in the flat across the street.  How does one explain _that_ to a psychiatrist, without making it seem like the person was crazy?  Well, Quinn was a little crazy, she thought to herself.  That's why they were a good match.

“There was a man,” she struggled.  “A man I mentioned, in one of our earliest appointments.  His name is Peter Quinn,” she said. 

“Ah, I don’t think you told me his name.  You worked with him, but then lost contact?”

“Yes,” Carrie said.  “I lost contact.  But he found me again.  And… just like that… we were lovers.  He came into my life, just as Marcus left.  He stayed a month, and we spent nearly every minute together.”  There were tears in Carrie's eyes as she described their rapturous reunion.

Johanna said nothing, but simply waited for Carrie to wipe her eyes and sip her coffee.  She smiled wanly at Carrie’s fond recollections of this man.  Finally, she was enough in command of her emotions to speak again.

“Johanna, I never realized how much someone could mean to me,” she said. “Not even with Franny’s father. That was a pipe dream. This is real.”

The doctor nodded.  “I understand,” she said.  “Real love is exhilarating, terrifying, and grand.  An experience that we rarely muster up the courage to enter.  And when it is returned, it is glorious. I take it he feels the same?”

“Unconditionally.  Yes.  He always did,” Carrie said contritely. “But I was too blind to see.”

“Mmm. But you see it now. And is Peter still with you?”

Carrie looked down at her hands. 

“No.”

She spent the next hour explaining the love affair with Quinn, going back to the beginning.  She had to dissemble or explain some events vaguely, because of their origin in special operations.  As she tried to describe who Quinn was and what he meant to her, she realized just how difficult he was to describe to anyone. That is, anyone without classified status. How do you explain to a normal person that the man you love once shot you in the arm?  And that he did it because he loved you madly, and was terrified to let anyone else take the shot?  And that you once stood on top of a bomb, to make sure he didn’t get killed himself?  None of it made any sense, outside of the original context. 

She listened to the words coming out of her own mouth, with more than a little astonishment: "brave", "resourceful", "loyal", and "amazing," among others.  She knew she was explaining the work of a black ops specialist, but the way she was portraying Quinn made him sound like a knight in shining armor, at least in relation to herself.  Which he had always been, although she had been too foolish to see it.  She knew she sounded like a woman very much in love.

“He’s my friend, but he’s much more than that. He’s the person who understands me best.  I think that was why it was so agonizing when he left.”

“And, where did he go?”

“Back to his job, which is… well, he’s a… soldier.” Her eyes flicked up at Johanna, significantly.

“Ah,” said the doctor, trying to take in the meaning. “It is dangerous work.”

“Yeah,” Carrie said, her face crumpling again.  She didn’t even want to think of how dangerous.

“So, you are waiting?” asked Johanna.  Carrie looked up and made eye contact with her.  She sat back and sipped her coffee.  She hadn’t thought of it, but of course she was.

“Yes,” Carrie said. “Waiting to hear, waiting for something to happen.  If this mission goes well, he said he’d leave the… service. And we’d figure out where to go, together.”

“He must be looking forward to the end of this mission, then.  It sounds like both of you are ready to cease this continuous harvest from the tree of suffering, after many years spent apart.  And that you will not be happy unless you are together.”

Carrie allowed herself to weep aloud at that statement, as Johanna reached across the open space between the chairs and patted her hand.

“I am sorry if I made you cry.  But you must recognize how significant this is.  You finally recognize that you are worthy of the love of a noble person,” soothed the doctor.

“No, no.  You’re right.  He _is_ a noble person.  And I am miserable without him.  Waiting to hear whether he’s alive or dead, scanning the news, my files, the reports, the papers… I don’t know anything.  The waiting is horrible.  And honestly, Johanna, I’ve been thinking about something else.  I don’t know what I’m waiting _here_ for,”

“How is that?” said Johanna, her tawny eyebrows raised.

“I came to Germany to get away from my past.  To start over. And I did that. But now, having been with Quinn…” her speech tapered off into a whisper.  “I realize that my past is a part of me, and it always will be.  He understood that, and I miss him so much.  I just want to go _home_.”

Johanna reached out again, put her hand on Carrie’s.  “I understand.”

Carrie sat quietly for a while, feeling talked out.  She recovered herself as she sniffled and glanced up at the Johanna's wall clock - a timepiece inherited from her Bavarian childhood. " _In_ _Bayern, gehen die Uhren anders"_ was emblazoned across the bottom of the clock, which instead of a ticking second hand, had a moving schnitzel noodle. "In Bavaria, the clocks run differently," Johanna had said it meant. The numbers and hands ran in the opposite direction of what one expected.  If only time really ran backwards, she thought.  She'd run after Quinn, and not let him leave. She'd have dragged him to the couch in her flat and sat on him until she convinced him not to go. Blinking her tears away, she was finally able to make the actual time out on the strange timepiece.

“Oh, we’ve gone way over an hour,” Carrie said.

“I reserved the whole afternoon for you,” Johanna said kindly. “Your work, is it going well?”

Carrie shrugged.  “For the last month, my head hasn’t been in the game. I thought I was born to do intel work.  But now I’m just not feeling it.  I feel like it’s time for a change.”

“Then, your interaction with Mr. Quinn has been important in another way.  He’s allowed you to see the many ways you could grow, and learn, and live in this world.  There is more to life than maps, charts and intrigue,” Johanna said.

 _And rifles, drones and coffins_ , Carrie thought to herself.  But she bit back that thought.  “Maybe it is time to leave that whole world behind, and live a life I could imagine Franny living someday.”

“You will always be her primary female role model.  Your hope, your fears, but mostly your actions will largely determine hers. How she sees the world,” said the doctor.

“You know,” Carrie said, sitting back and finally relaxing a little.  “A few years ago, before Franny was born, I was out of the Agency for a while.  I worked as a teacher in a community college.”

“ _Ja_?  Teaching, a respectable profession. And _safe_.” Johanna observed.

“Right,” Carrie said.  “I’ve never cared about my own safety.  But now that Franny is all that I have in this world…”

“And Peter,” Johanna said.  “You must imagine that he will make it back to you?”

“I go back and forth,” Carrie sighed, “Between being completely confident that I’ll see him again, and feeling sure that he’s already been wounded or killed.”

“I cannot advise you, but it seems to me that this man has come into your life for a reason.  He is not the _Sternschnuppe_ , a passing light in the night.  He must have a durable place. You return to him like an animal, homing in on the final habitat.  The stories you have told me write him large in your personal mythology.”

Carrie looked at her empty cup, feeling a little bowled over by Johanna’s potent assessment, and at the same time, tired of having her head shrunk.

“I know,” Carrie said.  “I don’t know what I’d do if he didn’t come home.”

“And home will be…”

Carrie looked up, suddenly resolute. “Home is the U.S.,” she said.  “I have loved living in Berlin, and I learned so much here.  But I’m ready now.”

Johanna stood up and held out her arms.

“I have enjoyed working with you, and becoming your friend,” Dr. von Haller said.  “And you and Franny must stay in touch.  I wish you luck and love, wherever the winds of change take you.”

Carrie became misty again.  This woman had held her hand through so many weeks and months of misery. “Thank you,” she said into Johanna’s trim shoulder.

Dr. von Haller wrote out Carrie’s refills, and helped her with her coat.  On the way down the stairs, and out of the building, she swiped open her iPhone and thumbed in a speed-dial number, so familiar she could almost dial it with her eyes closed.  On the fourth ring, there was an answer.

“Maggie?”  Carrie said, a bit breathless at the decision. “I’m coming home.”


	29. Wendepunkt

_July 2017_

_Twelve Kilometers East of Raqqah, on the Euphrates River_

Quinn leaned back against the wall of the rock outcropping, well dug-in to his outpost.  He’d been on long, hard jobs before, as a sniper.  He knew that for premium targets, most of the job was waiting.  Waiting for the intel, waiting for the rest of the group to assemble in their places, waiting for the target to arrive. This job had been more complicated than most, since the target was so high-profile. He’d been waiting in the general area for more than a month, on surveillance, and running recon missions.  And he’d been waiting in the precise environs of the sniper nest for the last eight days.  Finally, he thought, the word on the comm was probably right:  His target would move today, and when he did, it would be their best possible shot at eliminating him.

                Quinn thought back over his career.  Most of the time, his period of waiting in a sniper post or surveillance position switched his mind to neutral.  But since he’d left Carrie’s flat, he’d had a harder time forcing down the normal human feelings around his life and his choices.  It seemed she’d reawakened some kind of warmth and sentiment that he couldn’t sever, just by willing it to go away.

                He’d been doing this job for such a long time.  It was hard to tell anyone else how long, because they’d hardly believe that a man of his intellect and strength had been pulled out of obscurity at such a young age to do a job like this.  Most of the high-sensitivity sniper roles in the Black Operations group were held by educated men.  It was not a secret that they didn’t recruit many women for these roles, though the ones that _did_ work with the group tended to be the best- and the coldest. But the majority of Dar’s team had been yanked from a training group, after having made a splash on the marksmanship courses at Fort Benning.  Some of them were pulled from the squads of Agency recruits, those who had somehow distinguished themselves as more able to behave in socially acceptable ways, and retain their cover, while fulfilling their dark objectives.

                Quinn hadn’t done any of that.  Had time gone by, he might have been able to join the armed forces. Thus he might have been one of the ones who’d shone so bright on the rifle course in the red Georgia clay that he was selected by a Black Ops Recruiter.  But of course, that’s not how it happened for him.

                It had never occurred to him to resent it, but he hadn’t been recruited as an adult.  His time with Carrie had built some badly needed self-worth into his thinking, and he was seeing past events with new eyes.

                It was dawn, too early for the convoy to be leaving.  His comm was silent.  He lay his head to one side, and in the burlap-filtered sun, thought back to the mother and father who’d cherished him and reared him to near adolescence.  He didn't think about them often - it hurt too badly.  But he was alone, with all the time in the world, and he was used to sleeping with his eyes open.  He faded out, and daydreamed.

                Almost without effort, he called up an image of his mother.  A happier day from a better time.  She was lean and agile, her ash blonde hair in a pixie cut, climbing around on a tall stepstool and laughing, hanging strings of incandescent lights on a real Christmas tree.  Her chambray skirt swirled around her knees, and he could smell her ghostly perfume: _Blue Grass_. In his memory, he breathed it in, along with the smell of the fresh noble fir, tall and stately, cut by the family the previous evening. His father stepped into the daydream, laughing as well, reaching for the string of lights and steadying his mother with a hand to her waist, as she leaned in to put the yellow light on the top.  The tree would gleam from the bay window in front of the house, and cast its parti-colored reflections on the fresh snow piled there.  It was his favorite time of year.

                “John,” his Mom had called, her eyes alight.  “Honey, hand me the star!”

                Quinn’s eyes shut reflexively as a blast of wind threw hot sand into his face. He shoved the sweet memory away.  His Mom and Dad had been good people: educated, kind and loving.  But all of that had ended the night they’d gone to the Knights of Columbus Christmas pageant in Meadowbrook.  John, a seventh grader, had caught a ride home earlier with his best friend, Peter, who was a fellow student at Good Shepherd.  John's parents had decided to stay until the door prizes had all been given out. His Dad, he knew, was hoping to win the drill press, or maybe the 21 inch color TV.

                So twelve-year-old Quinn had waited at home, alone, enjoying his free agency this on evening five days before Christmas.  First, he ate liberally from the Whitman sampler his Mom had put out on the hearthstone, then washed it down with icy Coca-cola.  Then, after having shaken every present under the tree, he played with his computer toy, Simon, while sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, across from the front door.  He'd see them whenever they came in.  Eventually, even Simon’s comforting boops and bleeps weren’t enough to keep his heavy eyelids open.  He had lain the toy on the step, and gone to sleep next to it, his cheek on the deep pile of the shag carpet.

                When the doorbell rang at midnight, he sat up from the spot where he’d fallen asleep, wondering why the Christmas lights were flickering so vividly. Then, a finger of fear poking into his stomach, he wondered why the bell was ringing at all.  Who’d be coming over at this hour, that didn’t have a key? 

                He turned the deadbolt to admit a State Patrol officer, who frightened the already shaken boy by taking him by the shoulders.  He looked into the cop’s eyes, and when he saw tears shining in them, the bottom dropped out of his stomach.  The officer went down on one knee in front of the tall, slender child. 

                “Am I in trouble?” he asked querulously, as the snowflakes fell lazily around them on the stoop, backlit in the midnight dark by the glow of the headlights from Father Blazewicz’s black Cadillac.  Father stepped up onto the stairs, the gloom of winter shadowing his pale face, his sorrow palpable, as he crossed himself and kissed his thumb. That’s when Quinn understood everything he needed to know - the life he knew was over.  But the cop had made him stand and listen to the news, anyway.  It had happened on the way home from the Knights of Columbus hall, he'd explained.  A drunk driver.  There had been nothing anyone could do. 

                The memory became too painful at that point, and Quinn pushed it away. There had been no people on Earth he’d loved like his Mom and his Dad, and there were no other close relatives.  After that day, he’d gone into the foster system, lost, alone, and uncared for.  He’d spent a long, lonely stretch with strangers, and didn’t remember feeling anything for years. At least, not until he’d met Carrie, when felt the heat of her personality and intensity ignite something fierce in his heart.

                He shook his head sharply, and looked far down the dirt road with his scope. In the distance, Quinn saw the sand and dust churn, and the road turn from a diminishing brown snake into a swirling, khahi sphere that approached slowly through the dry river valley.  He knew that his position was exposed and his shot window was limited.  And he knew, as they all did, that when the sniper at _this_ position took the shot, he had a 75% chance of being made, targeted and killed by the rest of the convoy, before he could move out and self-extract. Quinn knew that, and accepted the risk.  He felt confident in his skills.  And it was part of his job.  There was another nest, ahead across the valley, where Rob and team two, the support team, squatted and waited, in case Quinn missed.  Another team further on was poised with rocket propelled grenades, as well as the ability to call in a drone, which would tail the car and blow everyone in it to kingdom come. But the preference from on high was to make the kill shot, make it certain.  Nobody guaranteed a more certain outcome than Quinn.

                Dar didn’t think the drones would be necessary. God knew, they’d missed before, for example, during that hideous mess that Carrie and her drone team had made of the Haqqani wedding, almost three years ago.  But then, she would have had no way of knowing that Haqqani had survived that attack. Quinn’s position as first sniper made it likely that he’d be able to take the first shot and kill the target.  Haqqani would then be dead, and the element of surprise would allow all the other teams to destroy what was left of Haqqani’s posse. They expected team two and the cleanup team to be able to annihilate the rest of his group in a couple of routine sweeps.  That was the way it worked.

                Quinn knew the risk.  It was in his training, set in his mind, and deeply ingrained since Dar Adal had pulled him out of the Baltimore foster home on his 16th birthday.  He knew what his job was. He was Dar’s guy.  And he knew he could get this motherfucker, avenge Fara, and put Haqqani's evil behind them all, forever.  Then, he’d check out of this shitshow, and go home to Carrie. Wherever home was. He didn't even care.  

                But it was hard to concentrate.  If only he could get shut of the image in his mind, the image that called him back, and begged him not to take the risk.  A pair of liquid blue eyes, a shaft of sunlight with pale hair floating, sweet lips that covered his, and called him beloved.  His heart nearly failed in his chest as he recalled Carrie, the intensity of their love, and their parting.

                His training was the only thing that saved him.  He had things to do, and people to shoot. He shoved the sweetness of her memory aside, and concentrated on the crosshairs.

                Haqqani was close.  It wouldn’t be long until he was in range.  And Quinn was ready.


	30. Drei Tassen Kaffee

_July 2017_

                                                                                                   

Carrie walked over to Markus, taking off her crossbody bag and reaching out to shake his hand as she strode up to the small café table.

                “Hey,” she said, hoping she sounded nonchalant.

                “Hey,” he responded, seemingly confused by her indifference.  “How are you?  You are doing ok? And Franny?”

                “Yes, thank you for asking.  We’re both well,” Carrie said.  She sat, and indicated to the white-shirted waiter who had just approached that she’d like a coffee. The waiter soon brought it, as well as the same for Markus.  Carrie leaned back on the metal café chair, and leveled a long look at her ex-boyfriend.  For some reason, her gaze was already making him squirm uncomfortably.

                “Nothing to eat?” Markus asked, attempting to find a common ground of small talk. The silence soon fell thickly between them when Carrie shook her head.  She focused on adding UHT milk to the dark brew.

                “So,” he said, deciding to just come to the point. “Anna tells me… you are getting ready to leave the country, go back to the US.”

                “Yes,” Carrie said, her eyes flickering darkly and dangerously up at him.  Of course, Anna had been besotted with the handsome doctor, with his reliable VW and his golden curls.  She knew they were still in communication.  But Carrie had always hoped she’d be discreet enough not to advertise her private affairs.  That was key for a nanny – after all, she was in Carrie’s home from morning until night.  Her gossip was a breach of confidentiality.

                “And your… friend?” Markus attempted weakly.  He was more than a little worried that the tall stranger was lurking around the edges of the garden square, eyeballing him with malice. Their previous interaction at the flat had been anything but pleasant.

                “He’s away,” Carrie said briefly. “On assignment.” She looked down at her coffee and stirred it.  “Markus, do you want to explain why you invited me here?”

                “Well,  _Ja_ ,” he said.  “Anna has loose lips, it is true. And she told me you were leaving Germany. We had parted on such a very bad note, and Carrie, I just wanted to let you know.  I’m sorry.”

                Her eyes went back to his face, and examined his open expression, his sympathetic gaze.  He had gotten controlling near the end of their relationship, but she knew that he really was a genuinely nice person, despite the parting shot during their breakup.  Well, she could hardly be the pot, calling the kettle black, when it came to cursing and losing her temper.  Although she’d certainly been more careful with her language for Franny’s sake, since she moved to Berlin, she could remember uttering some strings of F-bombs that would peel wallpaper. 

                “It’s OK, Markus.  I’m sorry too.  I guess it wasn’t meant to be,” she said gamely.  If he was just being decent and saying goodbye, she wasn’t going to be rude.

                “Other than the move, how have you been?  How is work?”

                Surprised at his tenacity in the face of social discomfort, she conversed with him for a bit about other things.  Her work, his work, and Franny’s new teeth, which were stubbornly pushing in and keeping her awake, as well as the troublesome drooling that accompanied it.

                “Yes, that will stop, and if it does not, you must see a good American pediatrician.  By age four, most children don’t have the slobber,” he concluded.

                Carrie smiled despite herself.  “ _Don’t slobber_ ,” she corrected.  “Yes, thanks.”

                They were finishing their coffee, and with it, Carrie assumed the conversation would be over.  But as she was setting the empty cup aside, and racing Markus for control of the check, he seized her wrist, instead of the folder that held the bill.

                “Carrie, I want you to know, I won’t ever forget you, or Franny. Thank you for everything,” he said, seemingly struggling to find words for something.

                She turned her hand over, and squeezed his hand in return.  “Why, me too, Markus.  I won’t forget you either.”

                “And,” he stammered, “I’m hoping you will wish Veronika and me well, in the future.”

                Carrie did a double take. “ _Nurse_  Veronika? From work?” she said, and laughed in spite of herself.

                Markus had the sense to remove his hand from hers, and simply shrugged.  “She is a very nice woman,” he said defensively, wanting somehow to excuse himself for being interested in someone else.  Carrie thought back to her office visits, the short, sweet brunette nurse that had always patiently examined Franny, and been so sympathetic to Carrie and all the patients.  She was shy, constant, and gentle.  No doubt she wanted babies, and soon. It made sense. Carrie put a few Euros into the café bill, and answered him. 

                “Markus, I wish you two nothing but the best.  She’s just what you need,” she said confidently. 

                They parted with a double-kiss of farewell, and he smiled crookedly at her one last time before walking away across the plaza. 

* * *

 

“So, you had to go and talk to Markus,” Carrie said accusingly. “I guess you couldn’t help yourself?”

                Anna made eye contact, and winced, embarrassed.

                Across the array of open crates and boxes, twisted paper and shredded packing materials burst like spilled popcorn, adorning the kitchen and dining room floor, as the two women worked together to pack up Carrie’s flat.  Franny didn’t help a bit in reducing the chaos, repeatedly climbing into and out of a dish crate. As she did so, she giggled, dragging her purple unicorn in and out with her, scattering packing shreds in every direction as she jabbered into its plush ear.  Quinn’s gift had become her new bestie. 

                “Miss Carrie, I’m sorry, but Mr. Markus, he had to know. He is moving on,” Anna said, by way of apology.

                “He didn’t _have to know_ ,” Carrie intoned sternly. “And I hope you haven’t shared more of my private business with anyone?”

                “ _Nein, nein,”_  Anna insisted.  “Only with Jens, and with Brigitte, that you must leave and go back to America.”

                Carrie stormed back into the kitchen, and returned a moment later, overloaded with dishes and plates. In her haste and irritation, she bobbled the stack, cursing.  A plate fell from the precipitous pile to the parquet floor, and shattered.

                “ _Shit_ ,” she hissed. “Franny, don’t listen to Mommy.”

                Franny, happily ensconced in the dish crate, hadn’t heard a thing.  Anna came over in her sensible thick-heeled shoes.

                “You sit down and rest, I will clean up the glass,” she said maternally. 

                Carrie acquiesced, and on her way to the kitchen table, she poured herself a cup from the carafe.

                “ _Ugh_ ,” she said, making a face at the stale taste of the cold coffee. 

                “I can make fresh?” Anna asked, as she swept carefully, using a broom and dustpan, watching that Franny stay in the crate, where she’d be safe during the cleanup.

                “No, it’s ok,” Carrie sighed.  “Let’s just get this done.  I’ll buy us some take-out later.  And by the way, Anna, I don’t know if I thanked you properly for all this extra work.  But I very much appreciate your help,” she said, a bit contrite after the scolding she’d delivered.  Anna was literally working overtime for her, and insisting on doing it for nothing.

                “ _Ja_ ,” Anna said.  “What are friends for?”

                Carrie sighed, and looked down at her hands.  What indeed?  Anna could be a _yenta_ , annoying in some ways, and she had the habit of talking over Carrie and finishing her sentences – incorrectly.  But she also was decent, generous and loving.  Loyal beyond what anyone would expect of a mere employee, behaving more like a friend.  More like  _family_ , truth be told.  Franny would certainly miss her. She had been a big part of her early childhood, a kind woman that Carrie intended to stay in touch with.  They had been through a lot together, through the darkest days of her loneliness, and now, through her waiting, both the despair and the hope. 

                Friends.  She could count on one hand the number of people she’d have called friends, including Saul and her Dad.  She’d lost one, and the other had passed on.  Who did that leave?  Maggie, a few kind faces from the BND, and Anna.  And, Quinn.

                As if reading her mind, Anna asked about him.  “You have heard from your Mr. Peter?”

                Carrie sighed.  It had been 5 weeks since she’d seen him making his way down her residential street, tall, remotely handsome, his jacket a patch of black receding into the hazy morning light.

                “Nope,” Carrie said.  “I’m hoping that I’ll hear something soon.  But there’s no guarantee, Anna.  It’s an open ended … assignment.”

                “ _Ach_ ,” Anna sighed, tossing the swept glass into the rubbish bin. “Your military men. So much time away from wives, and family.  Jens’ brother, he missed every Christmas for twelve _Jahre_.”

                Carrie smiled.  Anna’s idea of what Quinn’s “service” consisted of was simplistic.  But she was right.  Had Quinn ever had a Christmas?  She didn’t know.  His past was a black box.  But she didn’t think so. She’d had some nice holidays with her Dad and Maggie, along with a few memorably empty ones, when she was still with the Agency.  One delightful one with Franny and Markus, here in Berlin, and one disastrous one in Stuttgart, with Markus’ parents.  What a nightmare that had been.  At least she’d not be going back to that stifling, traditional Lutheran prison cell – Veronika was welcome to it.

                “Oh, I’m sure.  I hope Mr. Quinn will be done with the service before long.  Meanwhile, Franny and I are due to go home.  To start with, we’ll be living with Aunt Maggie,” she said, smiling down at the squirrely child, her hair all in a thicket, as she played in the moving mess. “And, I have a few job interviews next month.” Community colleges and tutoring firms.  It felt odd, so far outside her training.  But still, she knew a real change was in order.

                “ _Ja, ja_ ,” Anna said, straightening up, and rubbing her lower back.  “Miss Carrie, we are almost half done.”

                “Great, thanks, Anna,” she said, dumping the rest of the unpalatable coffee down the kitchen sink.  “I’m glad you’re here.” She stepped over to the chubby nanny, sensibly dressed in a pullover sweater and khaki slacks, and gave her an uncharacteristic hug.  “And, I’m glad you’re my friend.”

                “ _Ja_ , Carrie,” said Anna, into her shoulder.  As petite as Carrie was, Anna was much shorter.  “I will always be your friend.”

 _Always_.  Such a good person, Carrie thought, closing her eyes.  It would be hard to say goodbye. 

                The thought of saying goodbye brought other faces to mind. Who else should she see before she left?  As she released the nanny back to the list of packing tasks, she mentally ticked off a list of names, and as she did, she remembered a call she had to make before she left Germany.  She’d been remiss in not calling sooner, but now, she could remedy that.

* * *

 

“Carrie,” Astrid said, her impeccable eyebrows raised, her gray Tahari suit tailored closely to fit her svelte physique.  In the upscale coffee bar, Carrie felt disheveled next to sleek Astrid, who had always had her finger on the pulse of German intelligence, and whose personal relationship “guesses” were more on the money than most people’s "facts."  The German agent certainly was the more pulled-together of the two, Carrie having spent the previous 6 weeks chasing a preschooler, dealing with international freight, and sleeping on the couch while packing up her flat.

                “Hi,” she answered breathlessly, kissing Astrid in response.  “Thanks for coming out.”

                “Yes,” Astrid said, “And I should be thanking you. For your almost three years of valuable service. The BND needed a fresh pair of eyes.  They will miss yours.”

                The two made eye contact and  smiled wordlessly.  Then, the two women ordered coffee from the barrista, and sat down on two tall barstools next to a floor-to-ceiling window.  After the drinks arrived, Astrid reached down into her bag, and pulled out her phone, a flask, and a sheaf of copy paper.

                “What, you’re going to do my exit interview here?”

                Astrid snorted.  “Ridiculous.  I’ve brought my phone, but who doesn’t?  A bit of a drink, to say farewell, and some news. I hope you will find it good news.”

                Carrie smiled at the floor, and waited until Astrid poured a quick snort of liquor into her coffee.

                “ _Pros’t,_ ” she said, and the two women clinked cups, exchanging reticent smiles.

                “Well,” Carrie said. “I should start by thanking you for helping me, all those years ago.  I'd had a horrible year, and those were dark times.”

                “You are more than welcome,” Astrid said. “Your skill was helpful to the BND and by proxy, to the rest of the free world.”

                Carrie gave a lopsided grin. “I don’t feel that important.”

                “ _Ja_ , nobody does, unless they are an egotist.  But you _were_ important. And you still are.  As is our mutual _friend_ , Peter Quinn,” Astrid stated, emphasizing the word to encompass what they both already knew.  “You have seen him?” 

                “You know I have,” Carrie snarked.  “He’s off and gone.  A mission in the Middle East,” she said, trying to make light of it.

                Astrid’s expression became a bit more serious. “I thought he was still at your flat, “ _Making_ _whoopee_ ,” as you Americans say,” she finished.  Carrie rolled her eyes.

                “But perhaps,” Astrid said hopefully, “Quinn has shipped out to Istanbul?”  The German agent flipped the sheaf of paper in her hands, and laid it in her lap.  She sipped deeply at the laced coffee, as Carrie composed her response.

                “Well, I don’t think so.  He said there was intel. On a certain very bad guy, you know who I mean?” Carrie inquired, eyebrows up.  Astrid closed her eyes and nodded. Who else could it be?

                “And,” Carrie continued, “He moved on the guy, because there was a window of opportunity.”

                Astrid’s gaze became more sober and serious as Carrie spoke, despite the lightness of the conversation’s beginning.  She pulled the copy papers back up and opened them to the front.

                “This is a dispatch,” Astrid said, “from the field, which just came in as I was leaving work. Regarding a group of operatives from the USA that were trying to neutralize Haqqani.  Do you know anything about this result?”

                Carrie’s hands became cold and sweaty, as she took the papers from Astrid.  She rearranged them as she tried to translate the German and take in the message:

                “ _USA operation succeeds, Haqqani and 4 other key tribal leaders neutralized. One American operative KIA_.”

                Astrid’s hand shot out and steadied Carrie as she gasped, then encouraged her to drink the rest of her booze-loaded coffee in a few gulps.  She patted Carrie’s hands as she edged near to hyperventilation.

                “Now, now, you mustn’t overreact.  These ops teams move in groups, sometimes 15 or 20 men.  The casualty shouldn’t have been Quinn.  He is too stubborn to die, you know this,” she finished ruefully.

                Carrie got hold of herself, and sighed shakily. “I can’t even think of it.  You better be right,” she said.  “Got any more of that?”

                Astrid quaffed the rest of her coffee, then poured each of them a short one from her flask.

                “I hope you know, Carrie. You are the first person, for Peter.  The first, and the only.”

                Carrie looked at Astrid warily as the alcohol took affect and reduced her inhibitions.  “What do you mean?” she asked quietly.

                “The first love. The _only_ love. Don’t you know?”

                The potential for the news sheet to bring word of Quinn’s death, plus Astrid’s easy confession that Quinn had only loved her, nearly brought her to her knees in the trendy coffee bar.  Carrie’s knees buckled again, and the barrista eyed them uneasily, as Astrid gripped Carrie’s upper arms and brought her back to a comfortable seat on the barstool.

                “ _Ja, ja_ , now. You take it easy.  Peter, he never did anything he didn’t want to do.  He is a stubborn bastard, that way,” Astrid observed, patting Carrie’s wrist. “Stubborn. And beautiful,” she finished wistfully.

                “He is, isn’t he,” Carrie said, a sob catching in her throat. “He really is.”

                “ _Ja_ , he is. And he never wanted to get out of the agency, not with me, not with anyone else.  Only with you, did he want to go, and _sich verheiraten_ and make babies.  I am jealous. Really,” Astrid finished. Carrie was feeling more steady, but Astrid still held her hand.

                “I don’t know why you’ve always been so kind to me,” Carrie gulped, trying to thank Astrid properly, finally. “But I thank you.”

                “For Peter,” she said, simply, the light of adoration shining in her eyes.  There were black rings under her eye sockets, and for the first time since Carrie knew her, she looked old. “When you find him, you make him call me, _Ja_?  Just to say good luck,” Astrid finished.  Tough as nails, this one.

                Astrid packed up her flask, and shoved the printouts towards Carrie, knowing how she hungered for information, any information.

                They stood together, and Astrid pulled Carrie close, giving her the double kiss of farewell.  Then, Astrid grabbed Carrie’s shoulders, and pulled her close for a quick hug.

                “You call me.  And _Viel Glück_ ,“ said the blonde BND officer.  Then, as quick as she’d come, Astrid wove a path to the door of the coffeehouse, and disappeared.


	31. Homeward Bound

_August 2017_

“Put those boxes over here,” Carrie instructed.  She pointed to the living room, stopping the movers in their tracks.  They had been headed upstairs with boxes containing Franny’s DVDs and her own Blu-ray player. “That one too,” she indicated to the mover behind her.  They plunked the last few of her belongings into place, according to the labels on the outside of the crates, as their manager asked Carrie to sign off for the last of the shipment.  She smiled and thanked the men, as she saw them out of the condo.  She turned the deadbolt lock behind them with a click. 

                “They’re done, Maggie,” she called into the kitchen, where a clattering sound could be heard as Maggie sorted her silverware into drawers.

                “Good!” her sister called back.  “Are you going to order pizza?  Franny-banany is getting squirrelly, and she already ate all the grapes.”

                “Yeah,” Carrie said, plopping down on the couch and exhaling audibly. “In a minute,” she said. 

                She needed to catch her breath.  It had been a long and tough month. 

                She swiped her phone open, although she knew she hadn’t had a message.  Out of necessity, moving back to the US had required that she change cellular carriers, but she had asked for a number as close to her Germany number as possible.  And she’d listed her number – something she had never done before.  She wanted to be as easy as possible to find.  Quinn was an intelligence officer, so it wasn’t really necessary.  But it made her feel better.  She felt like her listed number and address was like a flare in the night for him.  When he came back to civilization, all he’d have to do was Google her.  And there she and Franny would be, simple to locate, as if she was saying “I’m here.”

                From the kitchen, Franny squawked, and Carrie heard a thump.  Evidently, it was much more fun to move house when you were almost four than when you were almost forty.  She knew her reprieve was over, and went into the kitchen to order pizza.

                “What do you want, kiddo? Pepperoni?” she asked, after having ascertained Maggie’s preference and her own as something with a lot of veggies on it.

                “ _Käse-Pizza,_ Mama,” Franny murmured without looking up, intent on unpacking her Barbie and all her various belongings from one cardboard box into another.

                “ _Ja_ ,” Carrie smiled.  She hoped Franny would continue her bilingual ways.  But in the US, who knew? She’d have to seek out a tutor, as they didn’t offer German classes at her new pre-school. She looked up a couple of restaurants in the vicinity of her new condo in Burke, VA, and phoned a local pizza delivery. Carrie placed the order as Maggie finished putting away the knives and coffee cups.

                Carrie opened another box, to find an assortment of toddler clothes folded and stacked around her small amount of fine stemware. “Waterford. Nice,” Maggie said.  “Up here ok?”

                Carrie opened the fridge, and started putting together a simple salad from Maggie’s move-in grocery gift box.  “Yeah, high up is fine,” she answered.  She hardly ever drank anymore.  The last time she enjoyed an adult beverage, she’d been sharing a bottle of wine with Quinn.  There had hardly seemed a moment happy enough to have a drink since he’d left, and the last time she’d had any booze at all was her parting “coffee meeting” with Astrid.   She turned back to her salad making.

                “What are you going to do with all these?” Maggie asked.

                “Huh?”

                “The toddler clothes.  There are even baby things in here,” Maggie pointed out.

                “Yeah, well, I needed something to pack the glasses in,” Carrie said.

                “Uh-huh,” Maggie said delicately, nodding to herself.  Carrie didn’t turn or look back from the cutting board, where she was tearing a head of lettuce into shreds.

                Maggie lifted one slender knee onto the kitchen counter, then stood on the counter surface, and began to cover the top shelf of the oak cabinet with shelf paper.  Carrie’s condo had just been remodeled, and the whole room smelled of sawdust.  “So,” she said, carefully arranging champagne flutes onto the shelf.  “Have you heard from Peter?”

                Carrie’s shoulders were stooped, and for a moment, she stopped chopping carrots.

                “No,” she said quietly, then began working again.

                “You’re worried,” Maggie stated.

                Silence. Chopping sounds.  Franny crawled out of the box with her Barbie, and trotted to her mother’s side, where she grabbed onto her leg.  Carrie’s hand gently came down, and stroked the child’s hair.

                “Yeah,” Carrie managed, swallowing tears.  “It’s been too long.”

                Maggie and Carrie had talked at length about Quinn, about the long stretch with no communication, about the last time she’d seen him, everything.  But since that initial outpouring, Maggie had been reluctant to bring up the subject.  It obviously meant everything to Carrie, where he was, how he was doing and when he’d come home.  It was hard to watch her suffer – she, they, had been through so much.  But a couple of weeks had gone by, and Maggie felt that she needed to ask, even though she knew the answer.

                Carrie handed Franny a cherry tomato, and the kid shoved it in her mouth whole, then wobbled back to play with her dolls.

                “He’ll be alright,” Maggie said, finishing the unpacking chore and climbing down from the counter.  “He’s a professional.”

                “He’s done alright until now,” Carrie said.  “But that last bit of intel I got from Astrid knocked me off the rails.”

                Maggie put her hands on Carrie’s shoulders, and turned her face to face. 

                “Quinn will be alright,” she said.  “You wait and see.”

                Carrie leaned in, and hugged her sister.  “I want you to be right.  I need him to be ok,” she said.  She rested her head on Maggie’s shoulder, and forced her tears back down.  “I can’t spend the rest of my life like this,” she said.  “Just waiting.”

                Maggie had no more words of wisdom.  She just hugged Carrie tightly.  As they released each other from the warm embrace, they heard the doorbell.

                “Pizza’s here!” Maggie said cheerfully. 

                Franny popped up from the cardboard box she was playing in, like a prairie dog. “Yay!” she squealed.

                “I got it,” Carrie said, bemused, and grabbed her wallet.  She put her eye to the peephole to make sure of the visitor’s identity before she turned the deadbolt.  What she saw made her blood run cold. 

                “Of all the fucking people,” she muttered, transferring her terror into visible anger.

                “What?” Maggie shouted from the kitchen, where she had Franny standing on a stepstool, washing her hands with dishwashing liquid.  “No pizza?  Is it the movers again?”

                “No,” Carrie said, her voice trembling, her hands starting to sweat. “It’s Dar Adal.”


	32. The Sound of Silence

“Won’t you come in?” Maggie said, cool but civil.  Dar Adal stepped across the threshold into the condo’s entryway as Carrie stood farther back in stunned silence, wearing a perplexed look.

                “Thank you,” Dar said, coming towards Carrie with a hand extended.  He shook hands with her, a neutral expression on his face.  Carrie returned the handshake as she struggled for words.  Maybe he was here to deliver good news. 

                “Dar,” Carrie said, somehow finding her equilibrium and speaking in an even tone of voice.  “I’m surprised to see you.”

                “It’s been a long time,” he said.  “Shall we?” Adal gestured towards the living room, indicating that Carrie should sit on her own couch.  He moved a cardboard box from the occasional chair opposite, and adjusting the knees of his black gabardine slacks, sat on the edge of the chair. 

                “Just moved in?” he asked.  Carrie frowned at his oily tone.  Maggie hovered worriedly at the darkened doorway to the kitchen, boxing Franny into the dining area with her toys.

                “Yes, as you can see.” she said. 

                “Germany didn’t agree with you?” Dar inquired, a mien of pleasantness barely covering his thinly-veiled hostility.

                “Not in the long term,” Carrie said, “We wanted to come home.”

                “Well, there’s no place like home, is there?”  Dar drawled.  The light from Carrie’s living room lamps reflected brightly off Dar’s bald pate.  She felt a wave of dislike so strong that it almost became nausea.  

                “To what do I owe the visit?” Carrie insisted, narrowing her eyes.

                “It’s about Peter,” Adal said, his eyes steely.  “I have a message for you.”

                Carrie’s heart, already leaping in her chest, skipped a few beats and went larruping along even faster. 

                “Well?”

                “It’s better if you read it yourself," Adal said.  "I won’t keep you."  He rose, and Carrie stood along with him, her knees feeling unglued, keeping her balance by the nearest of margins.

                Dar reached inside his gray houndstooth blazer, and pulled a business-size envelope out of the inner pocket.  Carrie saw her name on the front, written in a now-familiar sloping scrawl. “Carrie Mathison,” was all it said.  _Not another letter.  For fuck’s sake_ , she thought.

                “For you,” he said dryly.  Turning to leave, he couldn’t resist taking a parting shot.  “He was _my_ guy,” Adal said. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

                Maggie had heard enough and walked to the door, her lips in a tight line. Without saying a word, she briskly opened the door wide, and stood to one side, silently urging Adal to leave.

                Carrie stood watching Dar Adal, as the door closed on his receding form, and then sat bonelessly on the couch, her stomach somewhere down between her knees, her hands freezing.  Maggie turned the deadbolt and came quickly to Carrie’s side.  She sat down next to her and put her arm around her sister’s shoulders.

                “Open it,” Maggie said. “Get it over with.”

                Maggie helped Carrie hold the envelope.  Her hands shook too hard to open it by herself.  Carrie pulled the folded contents out, a couple of official looking sheets, then some notepaper, then another official looking sheet on the back.  She turned them right side up, and sucked in her breath when she saw the title line on the first page.

               

WASHINGTON DC BUREAU OF VITAL STATISTICS

CERTIFICATE OF DEATH

 

Deceased Name:             PETER  QUINN

Date of Death:                 July 21, 2017

 

                “Oh, Carrie…” Maggie said, nearly bursting into tears.  She stood and moved away to the kitchen, to give Carrie privacy as she read on.

                Carrie moved the Death Certificate to the back of the stack, and with her heart feeling crushed in her chest, launched into reading the handwritten letter, Peter Quinn’s letter.  His last.


	33. The Only Living Boy in New York

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Half of the time we’re gone, but we don’t know where..."

Dear Carrie,

I'm sorry I haven't called.  I'm still at Langley, getting ready to finish my exit interviews.  I'm almost done with psych testing, but not yet released by the Agency. So, officially, I'm not allowed outside communication.  But I was told I could write you a note, and that someone, probably Dar Adal, would quietly hand-deliver it.  I hope he managed to do it in a way that didn’t make you think I was really gone.  But he wasn't very happy about my resignation. Knowing that prick, he probably used the opportunity to twist the knife one more time. 

So, yeah, I resigned.  After that month I spent with you and Franny, I knew that there was no way that a man who had been an assassin could live a normal, happy life, work a regular job, and raise children.  Since the age of sixteen, I have lived under an assumed name, been trained for nothing but war, and lived an abnormal life in almost every sense.  I’ve traveled to every corner of the world, and killed repeatedly for my country.  I've lost count of how many.  I even killed a child. It was an accident, but there is no way I could move on into some other life, leave the Agency, and continue to exist with that kind of past hanging over me.

I finished the mission - I'll tell you more about that later - and Peter Quinn's identity died there.  Then, I went back to DC and processed out.  I constructed a new identity, one based on my true beginnings, with the help of the Agency document wizards.  I have a new name, which you’ll see on this copy of my new birth certificate. I have a new past. I even transferred all my accumulated education into a formal degree, which the Agency wrangled somehow from an accredited college.  I did a lot of reading while on jobs, and evidently someone higher up took kindly to my desire for a new life. So, my paperwork says I have a Bachelor's.  Whether I use it or not will be up to me.  And you.

I've been reaching into my past, looking for a way to belong. I took back my birth name – the name my mother and father gave me.  And I took my mother’s maiden name. There’s a lot more to tell, but the bottom line is, I’m out.  I have a new identity, and I have no idea where to start.  I hope you can help me, because I need you, Carrie.

For the first time in decades, I feel light; like a free man. I'm headed to New York City this weekend, after I finish processing out.  Will you meet me there? Or, I can meet you anywhere. I'll call you as soon as I can, and let you know when I'm done here.

My new phone number is below, along with my new name.  But you can still call me Quinn.  I’ll always love that name, because of the way you say it.

I’m starting over.  We have our whole lives now, for better or worse. 

I love you.

Yours, for always,

                -John Peter Quinn O’Connor

 

* * *

 

"Maggie?"  Carrie trebled, her panic seguing to elation as she felt Quinn's news sink in.  

A huge smile had spread over Carrie's face, and her eyes began to glow.  It worried Maggie.  Was the news too much for Carrie to bear?  Was she about to snap?  

"Can you watch Franny this weekend?" Carrie asked brightly, not taking her eyes from the sheets of paper.  She flipped hurriedly from the handwritten letter to another official-looking document on the back.  A crazy light came into her eyes, and she squawked out peals of braying laughter, throwing her head back onto the couch.   _Hysterical,_ Maggie thought. _Shit, I would be too._   

Maggie's face changed from a mask of tragedy to reflect her level of concern. "Sure.  No problem.  But, what exactly are you looking at, there?"  Maggie asked, confused.

A beatific smile illuminated Carrie's face, as she threw the papers aside, and hurried into the kitchen.  

"Franny!" she shouted. 

"Yah?" came the call from one of the boxes.  

"Want to have a sleepover with the cousins?"

"Yeah, yay, yay, yay!"  Franny burbled.  

Carrie walked to Maggie, and threw her arms around her sister, squeezing her tightly.  She let out a muffled sound, laughing and crying at the same time.

Her arms came up and held Carrie, as Maggie laughed lightly in dismay.  "What, already? Is it different than we thought?" 

"Yeah. Different than what we thought," Carrie said, tears of joy soaking into Maggie's sweater. "Very, very different." 

 


	34. (to look for) America

_Bethesda Terrace, Central Park, New York City_

She thought she’d scream his name when she first saw him.  Or maybe she’d say it quietly.  But when the moment came, and she emerged from the shadow of the brick-lined bridge into the sunlight surrounding the fountain terrace, she found her throat had closed entirely. She couldn’t say anything at all.  All she could do was smile.

                He was there, standing next to the fountain, his back to her.  His hands were in the pockets of his leather jacket, and his shades were down.  He turned, and set them on top of his head as he caught sight of her.  He smiled, a huge open smile, and started to walk towards her, affecting a casual air.  She started towards him in turn, walking more quickly.

                “Hey,” he said, as if they hadn’t seen each other for a week, and were only meeting up for a casual hot dog.

                “Hey, yourself,” Carrie said, catching him around the waist. He pulled her close, and her head rested against his chest.  She squeezed him so tightly that she could feel his heart beating.  It was going along at a pretty good clip, just like her own. “No big deal, meeting up here, huh?”

                He didn’t answer right away, just kissed the top of her head, and squeezed her back.  “A very big deal.  Life or death,” he said, sounding far away.

                “I hope you can tell me about it,” she said.  Quinn still held on, and wouldn’t let go for a minute.  He held her away at arms length, finally, and just gazed at her face.

                “I missed you,” he managed, after a moment.  And finally, they kissed.

                It was a proper kiss, long, and lingering: the reunion they’d been waiting for, the kind she felt they deserved after so much suffering and time. When he leaned back, he turned Carrie to face the same direction, and folded her arm through his. They began strolling slowly away from the Bethesda Terrace, through couples, families, and gawping tourists, towards the south end of Central Park.

                “Well, here we are,” she said, feeling a bit misty.

                “I was a little worried you wouldn’t come,” he said, sounding reluctant to admit it. 

                “You’ve got to be joking,” she said.

                “No, not really,” he said.  “I’ve come to expect rejection.”

                “Quinn,” Carrie said, looking up at him sincerely. “If I have anything to say about it, you’ll never feel like that again.”

                They walked quietly together, getting used to each other’s presence again, holding hands. Carrie kept stealing sidelong glances at Quinn, as if she were afraid he’d disappear.

                “Where are you staying?” she asked, looking down at the sidewalk.

                “Waldorf-Astoria,” he said, scanning around them, taking in the environment and the people in their immediate proximity.  He was still on high alert, she could tell.  It would take him a while to cool off that habit of vigilance... if he ever did.

                “Wow.  I was wondering what you’d pick.”

                “Something nice.  For you, for a weekend on the town,” he said.  “I think I can remember how to do something besides drink and f…” he tapered, off, looking sideways, with a slightly embarrassed flush on his cheeks. “You know.”

                “Oh, I enjoy drinking and you-knowing, too,” she said.  “But it’d be nice to do something else. I’ve never been a tourist here, only worked and studied here.”

                “Me either,” Quinn admitted.  “I feel like an expat in my own country.”

                “You sort of are,” Carrie said.  “That ends now.”

                Quinn didn’t reply, but smiled tightly. He stopped Carrie on the sidewalk as they were about to emerge from the shadows of the trees into the sunlight on 59th street.

                “Carrie, listen,” he said. “I’m worried.”

                She frowned up at him. “What are you worried about?”

                “I’m worried that... when you find out who I really am…” he trailed off again, and turning her to face the same direction, marched off with his arm looped through hers.  It was too hard to say what he needed to say, while looking into her eyes.

                “I’m worried you won’t want me,” he finally said.

                “Quinn, I _know_ who you really are,” she said.  “That’s how we got here, remember?”

                He didn’t answer, but smiled vaguely again.  “Decide later, ok?  After I’m done.”

                She shrugged.  “You can’t tell me anything that’s going to put me off.”

                “Like I said,” Quinn repeated.  “Decide later.  You still get an out, Carrie. You don't _have_ to be with me. You haven’t bought a bill of goods.”

She remembered how Anna had always said he could do with building up. She had meant his physical condition, but it seemed to still be true, at least when it came to his self-respect.  They walked towards the hotel, holding hands or linking arms through traffic, so different from the erudite charm of Europe or the bustling color of Islamabad. They were home. Finally, they arrived at the hotel, its grand old facade looming over Park Avenue in Midtown.

“You need anything before we go up?” Quinn asked thoughtfully.

“No.  I have what I need right here.  Show me the room,” she added, raising her eyebrows meaningfully.

Quinn's face again showed a beautiful, open, honest smile, as he took her hand and led the way. He had reserved a corner suite, and the quality of the room, the furniture and bed, the bedlinens and so on, was lovely.

“Beautiful,” Carrie said, stepping inside and dropping her bag. “Is the bed as soft as it looks?”

“Let’s find out,” Quinn said briefly, and turned off the light again.

 

* * *

 

After, they lay under the cool sheets, holding each other, Carrie’s head on Quinn’s shoulder, her legs twined around his.  Sunlight filtered around the edges of the closed drapery, which also hushed the noise of the traffic from Park Avenue and 50th St. outside.

“What do you want to do?” Carrie asked, her eyes still closed.

“More of this,” he said at first.  Then, after a beat.  “Wait, do you mean, what do I want to do with my _life_ now?”

 “I meant, do you want to go a museum, hit up a restaurant, or just make love all afternoon and get room service,” she said with a quiet chuckle. “But if you want to talk about it, yeah. I’d love to hear it all.”

Quinn wiggled out of her embrace, and pushed himself to a seated position, reclining on the bedpillows. Carrie moved over to put her head on the duvet, over his lap.

“Wish I had a smoke,” he said, his voice cracking slightly.

“We can go get some. Later,” she said. “But tell me some of it now, why don’t you.”

He sighed, took a deep breath in and out. “What do I start with?” he asked. He wasn’t used to talking with anyone about anything. Now, here he was, plunged into a world where the person he cared for most on Earth needed to hear about his past, his decisions and his innermost thoughts.  He felt like he was on a stage, listening to grips and technicians sort out how to light him up. No matter which way he turned, someone was listening and watching.  And it mattered.

“I’m not…” he started haltingly. “I’m not used to this.”

“It’s ok.  A few words at a time. Tell me what happened in Syria, how you got back here.” She rolled over onto her back, naked, so she could make eye contact. Quinn brushed the fair hair back off her brow. “You were gone so long, no communication. I thought you were dead,” she said, rolling back over.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not fishing for an apology. Tell me what happened."

* * *

_July 2017_

_Twelve Kilometers East of Raqqah, on the Euphrates River_

The churning sphere of sand seemed almost liquid with heat as it moved closer to Quinn’s sniper nest down the arid desert road.  As the string of jeeps moved closer, Quinn was able to make out the lead vehicle, which he was quite sure didn't hold his target. It never did – Haqqani was very careful to embed himself in the middle of a string of cars during any move, in order that the first vehicle or two in the convoy would hit any unseen hazards or IEDs before his did.  He was never in the last vehicle either, for fear of being carved away from the convoy by aggressively driven enemy cars, without enough eyes on him to defend it. The current convoy was only three jeeps long. If Haqqani’s usual paranoid habits were in play, that indicated he’d be in the center car.

Quinn used the long range scope to begin to focus in on the passengers.  The heavy tripod held the rifle and scope steady, even in the constant wind, and the telescopic sight gave him a great deal of resolution. He was secreted in a crag on the edge of a rock cliff, high enough that he was able to discern movement at a long distance, but low enough that he’d be in easy range of his best shot using his rifle of preference – the one he’d been using the longest, so long it was more like a friend than a weapon, his Tango 51.

The line of jeeps crawled closer, and soon Quinn was able to make out the rear-seat passengers of the middle vehicle.  In the bright sunlight, Haqqani could be seen in the center, with a shorter man to his left, slouched down in the seat and sound asleep with his head back.  _Your lucky day, buddy_ , Quinn thought. It would be much easier to take the shot without the chance of hitting another target first. The .308 caliber ammo would go right through another person at the planned range, but Quinn liked his hits nice and neat. Mr. Precision, he was, and he leaned into it, collecting himself for the best possible angle, lining up for the kill shot.

Haqqani’s convoy was about 30 seconds out from the best-aligned kill zone.  On the comm, Quinn heard Rob’s voice from their station, Station Two.  It was away across the valley to create a triangulation of fire.  “ _Green, we are green, Alpha,_ ” Rob intoned.  Quinn didn’t need to answer unless there was a problem, and so he didn’t. He held motionless, waiting for Haqqani to be close enough.

* * *

“And then, I heard a voice,” he said to Carrie.

“What?” she said, sitting up.  “Who?”

“I heard a voice, it wasn’t male or female.  At least, I thought I heard it.”

Carrie frowned, and put a warm hand on the chilly skin of Quinn’s bare shoulder, where he sat in the hotel bed with the sheets pooled around his waist.  “What did it say?” she asked.

“All it said was, ‘ _don’t_.’” Quinn said.  He looked Carrie in the eye, suddenly. “You don’t believe me.”

                “Actually, I do, even though there might have been nobody there.”

“What, you think it was a ghost or an angel or something?  Or ESP?  It’s _crazy_ ,” he said, and turned away from her.  He threw the covers off, walked to the bathroom and ran the cold water for a minute.  When he’d had a long cold drink, he came back to the bed, and sat down to finish.

“I think,” Carrie said carefully, stroking his arm again, “that your _mind_ told you not to.”

“Huh,” Quinn said.  “Doesn’t say much about my sanity.”

“It says _everything_ about your sanity, Quinn.  The likelihood of your dying on this mission was incredibly high if you took the shot.”

“And,” he noted, “Incredibly low, if I declined to take the shot.”

“What happened then?” Carrie asked.

* * *

Startled, Quinn twisted around to see where the voice had come from. But there was nobody. He was all alone in the sniper nest, as he had been for the previous eight days.  He wondered if the stress, pressure, loss and pain had finally taken their toll and driven him around the bend. He’d always expected to die in the field, but he’d never expected to go out Section Eight.

“Hello?” he called. It was almost time, the convoy was getting close.  He had about 5 more seconds to decide to take the shot, or call it off.  _The voice said 'don’t', a still, small voice_. Who would say it? And why right now? _Don't._ Heconsidered for another moment or two, then grabbed the radio.

“Team two, this is Alpha, I am not able to separate the target, over. I have to abort,” he said into the radio.

A resigned response came back.  “Roger that, Alpha, we are in position to attempt and we are green from station two, over.”

“Good luck, Team two,” Quinn said into the radio, and sat back, exhaling in a sudden huff. He felt his skull nearly spin, a head rush. His knees felt weak, too.  

A moment later, the convoy passed in front of him, and the chance was gone.  _Shit_.  His opportunity had melted away. Thirty seconds after that, a rifle shot rang out from the overhanging cliff on the opposite side of the canyon. Looking towards a red-rock butte that caught the light with flaming oranges and yellows, he saw no shining metal, but he did see dull fabric, and movement. The rifle shot sent the convoy into high gear, and the middle jeep swerved off the road, and then back on, fishtailing crazily as the convoy sped up and fled.  Quinn could hear the shouting voices from his hiding place, as Haqqani and his posse figured out that they were being attacked. Another shot rang out from Team two’s nest, then, there were no more.

“Negative, team two, we did not get the objective, over.”

“OK, then.  We call in the strike,” Quinn said into the radio, defeated.  What had he done?

* * *

“And then?” Carrie asked.

“Then, about 10 minutes later, drone strikes came in, and took Haqqani out for good.  And the rest of his team, all three jeeps. With extreme prejudice."

“And team two?” Carrie asked, looking worried.

“A bunch of Haqqani’s forces swarmed up the side of that butte within, oh, twenty minutes from the initial strike, and not long after the drone strike. He’d called them in from back at the compound in Raqqah, they were on their way almost immediately. They peppered that rock formation with automatic fire, from the ground and as they climbed it. Rob’s team barely made it out alive.”

“Christ,” Carrie said. “And you?”

“I did a fade. There was nobody looking for me on that side of the canyon. And, it’s what I’m best at.”

At that statement, Carrie gave him a searing look. “It’s what you _used_ to be best at. Because you aren’t going to fade on me. Right?”

Quinn looked back at her, like he was seeing her for the first time, and realized how he sounded. He smiled. 

“Right,” he conceded. “I’m not.”

“So then…” Carrie coaxed.

“I want to tell you the rest,” Quinn said.  “The rest is not as hard to talk about.  But I’m hungry.”

“OK,” Carrie said, climbing out of bed, and starting to put order to their clothes, which were inside out and all in a jumble.  “What do you want for lunch?”

“You pick,” he said. 

* * *

 Thirty minutes later, they sat across from each other in the upstairs of a deli near the hotel, at a window overlooking Madison avenue.  In front of them sat an overstuffed sandwich on Rye bread, surrounded by a huge pile of rippled potato chips, and a dinner-sized Greek salad.  They sipped at paper cups of soft drinks, as Quinn finished his tale. 

“God, that’s good,” Quinn said, getting his face around a huge bite of Reuben.

“I bet it is.  You act like you’re starving,” she commented, poking at the romaine lettuce.

He chewed and swallowed thoughtfully before answering.  “I am,” Quinn said.  “I’m starving for food, for drink. I’m starving for you, Carrie. I’ve been starving for love my whole life. I never thought I’d have this,” he said, indicating their bond with a gentle hand gesture, and reaching over, squeezed her wrist as he sucked on a Coke.

She swallowed back tears as Quinn went on with the story.

* * *

Quinn did a fade, and all of his gear worth saving was stowed and packed as he self-extracted from the site, immediately after his aborted shot. He heard the sharp report of automatic weapons fire as he skedaddled from the nest, and a godawful roar in the distance as the drone strike pounded Haqqani’s jeeps at their destination encampment. He heard from Rob on the radio, as all of his team members fled under pressure from the Talib forces, which scattered to the Four Winds when they got word that their leader was taken out. 

Quinn wrapped his head and face in a piece of cloth, and moved into the center of the next village. Covered with dirt, and tan as he was, he blended into a market about four clicks upriver.  He waited until a farmer was dealing with an obstinate nanny-goat that he obviously intended to sell, tugging and pulling at its rope hackamore and swearing in Arabic. He used the distraction as an opportunity to "borrow" the man’s farm truck.  In forty-five minutes, he was back in the environs of the Raqqah safe house, and in another 4 hours, he, Rob, and the four other team members who had made it back in time were on a transport out of Syria, headed back to Incirlik Air Base, in Southern Turkey, on the coast.

The Base was busy that night, noisy and lively, but Quinn was in a near dream state, fading out on Rob and the team and barely speaking to them.They had just started to whoop it up with hidden hip-flasks of some highly esteemed and extremely frowned-upon beverage, when Dar Adal stalked into the canteen. He made a beckoning motion to his team, without a backward glance, turned and walked back out of the hall, expecting that they would follow. 

Grumbling good naturedly, they all got up and followed Adal back to a conference room in one of the Admin buildings, complaining about a late night debrief. Sitting down in folding chairs, the group elbowed each other in congratulations as Dar Adal projected a satellite view of the drone strike, which showed Haqqani’s convoy being blown sky-high by the ordnance.

“There you have it, gentlemen,” Adal intoned.  “A successful mission, by any standard.  Job well done, and I thank you.  Your individual debriefs can wait for the associate team to get here, until oh, say, 0700 hours.”

There were groans and catcalls as the men stood and stretched, and prepared to get back to the activities that would afford them maximum decompression.  Quinn turned to go as well, until he heard Dar Adal’s voice calling after him, into the corridor.

“Except for yours, Peter,” he said. “Come back inside.”

Quinn turned uncomfortably, and went back inside the conference room. 

“Have a seat,” Adal said. “Breath mint?”

 _Christ, this guy._ Always offering something tiny and taking something huge. That’s just how he was, Quinn thought.  He knew what he wanted to say, and he’d said it before.  But this time, he was going to make it different.  He had to.  He wasn’t going to be sucked back into this black hole, not again.

“No thanks,” Quinn said, waving the packet away. 

Adal shrugged, and sat in a chair next to Quinn, looking up at the screen, where images of the Haqqani drone strike were looping on screen.

“So,” Dar started. “You didn’t take a shot.”

 _Of course, this prick knows.  He’s already figured it out.  Fucker is psychic_ , he thought. 

“No, I didn’t take the shot,” Quinn admitted. 

“And this was because?”  Adal said in his most irritable, Dad’s-Mad-at-you voice. It rankled Quinn.

“It was because I chose not to,” he said, feeling something inside him break loose.  His heart lifted, and he stood and turned to face Adal.

“What do you mean?” Adal asked, standing to meet Peter’s gaze with an icy stare.

“I mean,” Quinn said, “that I decided that my life was worth something.  And I decided not to take the risk.”

“You might have decided that when you weren’t in the field, on a critical mission,” Dar snarled.  Quinn felt ashamed for a moment, and then, the moment passed.  He knew this game, Adal’s game.  He’d been playing it for years. Too many.

“Yeah,” Quinn said.  “I’m sorry about that. But the job got done, and nobody died. Which is a miracle. Anyway, I’m out.”

Adal looked at him blankly, uncomprehending.  Then, an unctuous smile on his face, Dar tried another tactic.

“You like to say you’re leaving us, Peter. But you’re _my_ guy. And you never do,” he said, soothingly.

“Cut the shit,” Quinn snapped. “I’m _not_ your guy. I’m done with this.”

“Oh, this again,” he said.  “Bra _vo_.  A great time to decide to leave your team,” he crooned, pouring on the guilt.

“No, not ‘this again.’ This time I’m really out. And in light of everything I’ve done for our country and this service, you’re going to help me. You’re going to declare me dead, and help me construct a new identity. I’m never working for you again, Dar.”

“It’s that woman, isn’t it?” Adal accused. “Mathison.”

Quinn said nothing, simply stared Dar Adal down, his expression agitated, but not angry. There would be no choke-hold today, establishing Dar’s dominance in a perverse, backwards fashion.

Adal finally looked concerned, and seemed to be taking Quinn’s statement seriously at last.

Quinn walked to the door.  Dar turned away casually, assuming that Quinn would wait until he was dismissed.

“Look,” he said. “If you need a break, that’s fine….” he muttered. “Counseling, time off, whatever you need…” Adal turned and tried to diffuse the situation by talking to the screen.  “Look up there, Peter.  There’s still so much to _do_.”

Dar turned, to see the door close softly.  He was alone in the room.  Quinn was gone.

* * *

The sandwich was long gone, the salad plate was empty, and Carrie sat, enraptured, listening to the end of Quinn’s tale.  She kept sneaking potato chips off his plate, which amused him no end. Her eyes were wide.

“Jesus.  You just told him you were done, and walked out?"

“Yeah,” Quinn said.  “I saw him the next morning, on the way to catch a transport to Germany.  I told him I meant what I said, and that I’d see him in DC.”

“Wow,” she said, crunching another chip.

“Just take the rest,” he said, smiling, pushing the plate towards her.

“Nah, I’m good,” she said, pushing it back.  But a moment later she stole another, at which a lopsided smile spread across Quinn’s face.

“When I got back to DC,” he said.  “He was resigned.  He knew I’d thrown the job, that I decided I was out, and that nothing could bring me back. So he got behind it. He had my old identity listed as dead…”

“Scared the shit out of me and Astrid,” Carrie observed acidly.

“I know. Sorry. Then Adal instructed the Ops group covert documents guys to help me make up a new identity, a new origin, a new name.  Which is not really new, as you now know.”

“I like it, though,” she said.  “John O’Connor.  You sound like a cop, you know.”

He gave her a strange look, then watched as she swiped the last potato chip.

“So,” he said by way of explanation, “that’s why Adal used that letter I wrote to hurt you.”

“I understand that now,” she said.

“Yeah,” Quinn observed.  “You broke his favorite tool.”

“Tough shit,” Carrie snapped. “Quinn,” she said, putting her purse over her shoulder, “I am so glad, so very _very_ glad, that you decided to leave the team.  You deserve something better.  And…”

“And?” he asked, finishing off the Coke.                

“And so do I.  What you said in that letter… about having the rest of our lives, for better or worse?”

“Yeah?” Quinn said.  He followed Carrie down the stairs, and out into the street.  The heady noise and light of a New York summer Saturday rose around them, and he had to lean close to hear her response. 

“That’s what I want.”

Quinn had never been one for words.  Only one came to mind, and so, he said it, as his arm wound around Carrie’s shoulder.

“Good.”


	35. Home at Last

The deadbolt turned, and the heavy door swung inward.  Carrie stepped across the threshold and flipped a light switch, illuminating the entryway of the condo, still smelling of fresh paint with boxes stacked along the walls. She took a few more steps inside, and turned on the kitchen light. 

                “Welcome,” she said. 

                Quinn stepped inside and shut the door behind him, carefully turning the lock.  He set his duffel bag down at his feet and stood there awkwardly, his jacket over his arm.

                “Come on, come in.  Look around, see how you like it,” Carrie insisted.  He slung the jacket over the back of a nearby chair, and peered around.  Straight ahead was the kitchen Carrie had just stepped into.  To the right was a small dining room with a computer desk set up in the corner and a dinette set for four in the center, set with a flexible wipe-clean placemat in the spot nearest to the kitchen.  To the left, there was a compact living room set with Carrie’s couch and tables, a TV cabinet neatly closed in the corner.  Maggie had done a bit more unpacking, but for the most part had left it to Carrie, pushing boxes to the edges of the room and creating some livable space before she’d taken Franny home for the weekend.

                “Nice,” Quinn commented briefly.

                “The kitchen is new,” she said, stepping into the narrow galley.  “Two bedrooms, two baths, a study upstairs.  Lots of room for your stuff.”

                Quinn smirked, and turning slightly, indicated the duffel on the floor.  “What stuff?”

                Carrie’s face drew down in concern. “Nothing else, Quinn?  Really?”

                He shrugged, and opened the fridge.  It was clean, but slim pickings. “Maybe a few boxes somewhere. But nothing big,” he said.  “No beer?”

                Carrie reached into the back and produced an opened bottle of white wine, which was hidden behind a container of strawberry milk.  “No, but here.”

                She looked into the cabinets and located a couple of stemmed glasses, and poured the rest of the wine out evenly between them.  They sat in the living room, Quinn on the edge of the overstuffed chair, Carrie leaning back on the couch at an angle to him. She held out her glass, and offered a toast.

                “To beginnings,” she said.  He touched his glass lightly to hers, his eyes never leaving her face.  He sipped dutifully, his back ramrod straight.

                Carrie set her drink down on the end table next to her, shoving a box of Duplo legos aside to make a space for it.

                “Come on, Quinn, relax.  Act like you’re staying.”

                He leaned back uncomfortably, and drank off a big slug of his wine.

                “I’m staying,” he said. Carrie listened for notes of uncertainty in that statement, but couldn’t detect anything obvious.

                “Well,” she said.  “The place is new to me, too.  I closed only two weeks ago, and I was moving the day I got your messages.”

                “I don’t want to intrude,” Quinn said.

                “Goddammit, Quinn, you’re not intruding!  I want you here, Franny wants you here!  This isn’t a short term thing.  I’ve been waiting to be with you, to spend time with you, ever since you left for that last job,” she insisted.  Reaching across the distance between them, she took his hand.  He smiled at her with his eyes, and his lips slowly followed suit.

                “I’ve been waiting too,” he said, squeezing her hand in return.  “I’m just afraid you’ll change your mind.”

                “I won’t,” she stated.  “Not unless you do.”

                He squeezed her hand thoughtfully, looking down at her fingers, then let go.

                “Wait until you hear what I have to say.  You might…”

                “Quinn, I already know the worst.  What else could there be?”

                “Some things…” he said quietly.  “Some things that don’t make sense…”

                “What?” Carrie demanded. She leaned back and folded her legs under her, curled up comfortably.  “Like, why did the team demand that anyone go in as a solo sniper, if they could just use a drone to take out Haqqani’s whole group?”

                Quinn looked up at her sharply.  “You know why that is,” he said.  “Don’t you?  Operation Certainty?  It was because of the wedding. The mistake.”

                Carrie cringed.  She suddenly understood. But it had been a long time since she’d felt the true impact of the trauma she’d caused.  One of her decisions as “Drone Queen”- Islamabad station chief - had been to drop ordnance on a gathering that appeared to be a terror cell.  But their intel – and her decision – had been incorrect.  Carrie had accidentally ordered the drone strike of a wedding, resulting in the death of more than 50 civilians.  It had been the beginning of the end of her old career, that drop.  She still felt horrible, and Quinn could see it.  He reached out for her hand again.

                “No, no, that’s not what I was going to tell you.  But you know why they did it, Carrie.  Eyes on the target.  _Certainty_ meant that no drone strike of a major encampment would ever go off again without independent confirmation of the prime target’s location, from multiple sources.  In the end, it was a good thing.  But more risk for Ops,” he finished.  When her eyes flashed up again, they glowed with guilty tears.  She swiped at her nose and gulped at her wine.

                “So not only did I kill a bunch of innocent people, I put your life in danger again, years later.  _Fuck_ ,” she said, dejected. 

                “It’s ok.  It _turned out_ ok, ” Quinn answered simply.  They sat quietly for a moment, each deep in their own thoughts.  Soon the wine was gone, and they shoved some board books aside on a nearby cardboard box, so Carrie could set the glasses down.  She lay back on the couch, her head on the matching throw pillows.

                She held her arms open to him.  “Come here,” she said.  He lay next to her, arranging his arm behind her neck, pulling her close with the other arm.  Her head pillowed on his shoulder, she closed her eyes and sighed.   _What a good place to be,_ she thought.  But of course, the discussion wasn’t over.  Hadn’t even started.

                “That’s not all,” Quinn said with difficulty.  “I need to tell you, and be done,” he said.

                “OK.  Tell me.”

                “My letter said I’d transferred my education to a formal degree,” he admitted.  It was so much easier to talk to her when he didn’t have to look into her eyes.  “You probably wonder why a Harvard man said something like that.”

                It was hard for Quinn to talk about pleasant things – she could only imagine how difficult this was for him.   She said nothing, only squeezed him tighter, as the words started to come. 

 

~~~

 

                He had sat in the interrogation room for at least two hours, and the deputy sheriff had been kind enough to bring him nothing at all to eat or drink.  His foster father or mother - someone - had been called, that he knew for sure.  Finally, a chubby, sad-eyed uniform had brought him a doughnut and a cup of coffee.  He thanked her by snapping, “I’m a kid, I don’t drink coffee.”  The cop hadn’t gotten angry, though.  She only looked sadder.

                “Yeah, some kid, hot-wiring a car,” she said.  “There’s someone coming to see you.”

                “Huh?  Where’s Angela and Dave?” he'd asked, but the uniform had just waddled out.  His foster family, the fourth in four years, had been decent enough, even if the other foster kid they had taken in wasn’t.  Even with his vandalism, petty theft, shoplifting, and mayhem, John considered himself a “better kid” than his foster brother, Mike.  That other kid had taken advantage of smaller, younger John O’Connor for nearly a year, given him Indian rope burns at every opportunity.  Rifled his things, torn up pictures of his father and mother, and stolen cash from his wallet, snorting laughter at the younger boy’s tears. 

                But also during the previous few years, John had made some friends on the streets, and through some of these tough guys who existed half in gangland, half in school, he’d learned some means of self-defense.  Dirty and underhanded, some of them, but they worked.  Finally, John had bulked up enough that he felt confident, in the aftermath of one day’s casual cruelty, he finally lost it.  He’d cornered Mike in the finished basement next to Angela’s new washing machine, and thrashed the ever-loving shit out of him.  Mike had never told their foster parents, just glared balefully at John over the swelling black eye at dinner that night.  Insisted he’d fallen into a wall at school.  Angela had shook her head, and folding her hands, had said Grace over dinner – nothing more was said about it.  Mike had not been able to admit that a skinny fifteen year old had beaten the shit of out him.  Mike was four inches taller than John, and about 40 pounds heavier - it was embarrassing.   

                 That was the thing about teenage John-O…  he was scrappy.  And he could surprise you.  And much, much smarter than he let on. He had been lucky that his foster families had fed him well enough to this point that he’d had decent nutrition.  It had given him some length of bone, and he was starting to fill out.  He’d changed a lot in four years, inside and out.  His cheekbones were more sculpted, his eyes wary.  And always on the lookout for some hustle.  That’s how he had ended up at the local precinct again.

                The doughnut gone, he’d chased it with the crappy coffee, and burping loudly, crushed the cup into a ball. He’d rocked back on the chair, and pretending a fadeaway, he shot the paper wad basketball-style towards the trash bin across the room.  It bounced off the rim into the can as the door to the room opened.

                “He shoots!  He scores!  And just who the fuck are _you_?”

                A nondescript Middle-eastern appearing man of middling height came in, and dropped a file folder on the table.  He sat without saying a word, and held out his right hand.  John shook hands with the man, cautiously.

                “Are you my public defender?” he’d asked.

                “No,” the man stated, the stark fluorescent glare reflecting off his balding pate, his bulbous nose. “My name is Dar Adal.  And I’m hoping you can do a little job for me.”

                John had become completely still, and folded his arms across his chest.  He stared at the man, and didn’t answer.  A full minute played out as they sized each other up, silently.  Finally, the man smiled.  It was an oily looking smile, the smile of someone who knew something you didn’t.  It made John uncomfortable, but he understood the wily look.  He waited.

                “Good,” the man said.  “Let’s go through your file.”

~~~

                Quinn talked for the better part of an hour.  His first job with the Black Ops group. His virtual adoption by Dar Adal.  His lack of a high-school diploma, which he’d made up with a GED, and his accrual of a hundred hours of college credit over the years, mostly taken through distance learning and self-study.  There had been lots of time on jobs, he’d said.  Lots of waiting.

                “When I was first assigned to Brody, I was on a Dickens kick.  I read almost everything that he wrote that winter,” Quinn said.  “It looks like I don’t have a life, like I never had a life.  But I always had a life in my mind, Carrie.  I was always thinking.”

                She reached up, and kissed him on the chin, and still said nothing.

                “So, I lied to you.  I lied because I didn’t think you’d respect the punk I was.  You were so beautiful, educated, so smart.  Way out of my league. I sort of had a story ready, but I wanted you to like me.  Think of me.  Maybe even feel respect. So I said I went to the Hill School.  Harvard…”

                “I know, it was bullshit.  I’ve known for a long time.”

                He pulled back looked down at her.  Finally, it was out.  He was able to meet her eyes.

                “You knew?”

                “Quinn, I was a spy.  Remember?  When I got really interested in you, I looked into your past.  I wasn’t out yet.  I still had access.  And after Dar sent you off on that mission, I did some digging.”

                “You knew.”

                “I knew and I didn’t care.  I never cared. I love _you_ , who _you_ are, not where you went to school. I never gave a shit about any of that.”

                Quinn gave a short, choked, laugh, and kissed the top of her head.  He didn’t know what else to say.

                “I love you, too,” he said.  He realized he hadn’t said it enough, resolved to say it more often.

                “So,” Carrie asked, sitting up slightly, leaning on one elbow. “Where _did_ you go to school?”

                “Huh?”

                She smiled indulgently.  “What does the paperwork say?”

                “Oh. Um, Penn State. The guys have an in with the Registrar over there.  Criminal justice,” he said, the irony of it smearing amusement across his face.

                “Penn _State_?”  Something about it hit them both sideways, and they both laughed, Carrie giggling so hard that she had to hold her sides.  “Penn State!  Nittany Lions!”  she said, going off into peals of laughter again, nearly falling off the couch.

                “Now, now,” Quinn said.  “Calm yourself, it’s just a piece of paper…”  he said, still laughing himself.

                “Oh, my God.  Quinn, is that it? Is that your big secret?” Carrie said, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes.

He had plenty of secrets, but that had been the one she needed to know.  The one that worried him the most.

                They were both sitting up on the edge of the couch. She put her arm around his shoulder.

                “I was expecting something much worse,” she said honestly. “You know, I like you. The way you are.”

                Quinn smiled down at the floor, at their clasped hands, and finally looked up into her eyes.

“I like you, too.  I have.  For a long time.”  He leaned over, and his lips touched hers, then moved to her cheek, feather-light.

                The doorbell pealed, and they heard squealing outside the front door.

                “Franny’s home!”  Carrie leapt to her feet and went to unlock the front door of the condo.  “ _Coming!_ ” she shouted.

                From around the corner, Quinn listened to the giggling, the sounds of embracing and greetings, Maggie’s soft voice and Franny’s high, squeaky one.  The child came around the corner, her purple unicorn tucked under one arm, looking frowsy, matted and well loved.  She squeezed him tighter, as she came around the corner and saw Quinn.  Carrie stepped around the corner too, and squatted next to Franny, just behind her with her hands on her shoulders.  Standing behind the two, Maggie smiled in quiet delight and recognition.

                “You remember Mr. Peter?  He’s going to stay with us for a while.”

                Franny looked frankly at the tall man in her new living room.  After a moment, she smiled.  Franny asked Quinn, “Are you home?”  

                “Yeah,” Quinn said.  “I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> This work was a massive undertaking. I never intended it to go this long, but after I dove into the "what happened after S4?" question, it seemed like there was no simple answer. There was a lot of backstory to tell, and since few of us were satisfied with the answers given in S5, I'm glad I took a longer journey down this road into an AU where Quinn gets to keep all the marbles. 
> 
> Sometimes we DO get second chances. I hope this brought some pleasure to everyone who read it.
> 
> Warmly,   
> SCB
> 
>  
> 
> Ich bin bei dir,  
> du seist auch noch so ferne,  
> Du bist mir nah! 
> 
> Die Sonne sinkt,  
> bald leuchten mir die Sterne.  
> O wärst du da!
> 
> -Goethe, Ich denke dein


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